She was staring at him in the bar because he was wearing the same wire rimmed glasses her father used to. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and he was wearing a faded Megadeth shirt that strained slightly over his beer belly. His eyes met her gaze and held it. Their chemistry was immediate and silent. He walked over like he owned her and asked what she would like to drink. When she told him I don’t drink, he laughed, sat beside her, put his hand on her knee. She leaned into him, took in his BO, his -
“Are you wearing Old Spice?”
He complimented her tattoos and her rockabilly dress, her coiffed hair, black and smooth. He did most of the talking; she was all big open eyes still staring up at him until he finally asked if she wanted to go back to his place. In the taxi she picked at the callous on the lowest knuckle of his index finger, peeling it up, then twined her fingers between his.
His place was dark, stacks of papers in manila folders on the dining table, bookshelves with worn paperbacks, fantasy and sci fi, a few obligatory classics scattered in too. He didn’t turn on the lights or offer her water, just kissed her against the door, then carried her across the threshold of his bedroom into his bed.
As he laid her down she closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she saw him in the dim reflected light from the street taking off his clothes, revealing a soft, pale stomach covered in dark hair. She crawled towards him and kissed him and he pushed her back onto the bed with a little too much force. He was drunk. She liked it, warm anticipation rising in her chest.
He grabbed a condom, put himself roughly inside her, grunting as he did it; she wasn’t wet yet and it hurt. She pecked at his neck with a few uninspired kisses, then lay there, looked up at his face; with his eyes shut, in this low light, she thought he looked just like her dad. Then, finally, she was wet. She wrapped her legs around him, pressing him further into her, and he leaned his head to kiss her, beer on his breath.