By Brittany Kerfoot
It’s a fifteen-minute drive to the dead-end street where they park the car and climb into the backseat together. They make the trip twice a week on their lunch break, stroking each other on the way and kissing at red lights. She tries to make conversation but he’s a quiet man, she knows this, so she watches him drive her car with one hand, the other resting heavily on her thigh or petting her between her legs as he swerves around slow-moving minivans. It comforts her to know he’s just as eager to reach their spot, an empty cul-de-sac of half-built houses and plots of barren land. She locks the keypad on her phone every time, paranoid her foot will accidentally bump her purse and dial her boyfriend’s number, leaving him a voicemail of her screaming another man’s name.
They take off their jackets and toss them into the front seat; she kicks off her shoes and lunges for him, awkwardly straddling him as he grabs a fistful of her hair and bites her bottom lip. She sucks his long fingers and digs her nails into his shoulder, a small part of her intent on leaving a few semi-permanent marks. When they’re done, her body aches and she lies across him, naked and unafraid. He looks at her shyly, smiles and says, “You’re amazing. You’re the best I’ve ever had,” and she almost believes him, and she almost starts to cry.