He was about to come. And it was just the two of us here.

“Stop,” I said harshly, the command surprising both of us.

He froze. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Did I hurt you?”

“It’s not that,” I said, trying to modulate my voice, which only made it come out robotic. He had one hand on either side of me, his hair hanging down toward my face. I could feel him growing soft.

“Pull my hair,” I commanded, and the pulsing between my legs grew more insistent.

He threaded his fingers gently through my hair and gave it a tug. His dick began to stiffen again inside me. I shook my head dismissively.

“Harder,” I said.

He tugged porno-hard.

“Harder,” I said. I wanted my scalp to burn. I wanted him to pull so hard he yanked out a fistful. “Harder!”

His dick had shriveled up. He released my hair and pulled out. “No,” he said. “I don’t want to.”

“You do fucking want to! You do want to! You’re just not letting yourself!”

“No,” he said. “You want me to. You don’t give a shit what I want.” He had rolled off the condom and was pulling on his boxers and then his jeans and his shirt, shaking his head rapidly. “I actually like you—”

“No, you don’t.”

“You don’t get it.” He grabbed the rest of his things, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He looked like a goldfish. He turned to leave the nook, moving slowly as if he hoped I would tell him to wait, but I turned my head away. Finally, he left.

I lay there on my back, shirt still pulled up past my stomach, underwear around my ankles, knees pointing into the air, until his boots stopped clanging against the spiral staircase and he was gone. I hated him! I hated Jojo for inviting him! I punched my thigh hard, then harder, until it turned white and then red, hot and inflamed. Only then could I close my eyes and breathe in, several huge, sustaining lungfuls. I touched the red spot on my leg tenderly, knowing it would leave a bruise, then pulled up my underwear, clammy and cold, and looked out of the nook. I couldn’t see Sam anywhere. Jojo and her boyfriend were on the couch in the far corner. Where was the bartender? Celeste was easy to spot in her shimmery dress; she was by the drinks table, pouring herself yet another. Now she was with a bearded trust-fund painter from her year, his arm draped across her shoulders. Again I scoured the crowd. The bartender was definitely not present. My relief that he wasn’t still speaking to Celeste, her hand on his arm—or kissing her in the corner, or fucking her upstairs—was enough to make me woozy. Had he gone back to Pilz Bar? My eyes landed again on Jojo, who looked upset and angry, her face splotchy, her lips pursed. She was talking to her boyfriend and shaking her head, probably telling him what a disgusting half-human I was; his arm was encircling her, he was listening and nodding, he was stroking her shoulder with her fingertips, round and round.