Marcie
Ben leads me to the final door, the one I guessed hid his bedroom.
“Shoes off.” He smiles sheepishly and kicks off his slippers.
I untie my sneakers. He opens the door. Inside, the walls are also soft beige, and the furniture looks like rental stuff, but I barely notice anything other than his patient gaze on me. I’m not a power grid anymore. I’m something warmer, softer. I remove my shoes, and he pulls me inside the room.
Then, because it’s him, he fumbles for a few minutes. The light level isn’t right, so he puts on a lamp instead. It’s too quiet, so he plays some music then changes the playlist three times. I lie on the bed, watching him, that warm feeling growing all the while.
Quickly, before I forget, I text Heather that I headed to the library after my session and not to
