“Yeah, well, maybe I like things that are bad for me,” I say.

I put the cigarette between my lips, and he lights it. A real gentleman, this Kevin.

I exhale up at the string lights. They’re so bright, they burn.

“I think everyone likes things that are bad for them. Don’t you?” I ask, leaning forward and tilting my head back, making my neck long.

“Do you live around here?” he asks me.

He leans against a post. It’s working for him. He looks cool. The collar is popped on his jacket. The popular boys used to do that in high school.

I bet he was a popular boy in high school. Probably at my high school.

“I grew up here,” I say. “I don’t live here anymore. I live in the city. Manhattan.”

“Oh, nice,” he says.

For some reason this reaction is disappointing to me. I know the conversation isn’t going to go anywhere from here. He can’t keep up with me.

“You’re looking at me funny,” I say. This is a line. It has a high success rate.

“Really?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “You’re looking at me funny. Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” he says. He’s getting shy. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say, pretending I’m shy.

Let’s see if he can recover.

“You’re really pretty,” he says. “Gorgeous.”

Ah, Kevin. Proud of you.

“You think so?” I ask after a long drag of my cigarette.

“Fuck yeah,” he says.

“Yeah?”

I put my cigarette out in the ashtray and step down off the picnic table. I take two steps closer to him. Another step so my nose is an inch from his nose.

“Why don’t you prove it?”

He drops his cigarette and kisses me.

It’s a sloppy kiss.

Too much tongue. Too busy. He breathes heavy through his nose. His hand is on my throat, and his grip is hectic. I’ve got my hand on his chest, and I can feel his heart. I can hear his pulse. I can taste his adrenaline. It’s sweet. Awakens my appetite.

The juxtaposition of sensations is thrilling.

The exchange is wild.

I love a no-strings random hookup. This is my sport. I’m varsity, MVP. I should be enjoying this. But it doesn’t feel the way I want it to feel. The way I need it to feel.

He takes his hand from my throat and brings it to my chest. Bold.

I don’t appreciate the squeezing. He bites my lip, or maybe I bite his. And the taste of blood is all it takes. My thoughts turn. My stomach rumbles.

Does he know? How fragile, how weak he is beside me? That I could bite off his slippery, clumsy tongue? That I could peel off his chapped lips? Crush his greedy fingers to dust in my fist?

He pulls away, and I open my eyes to the glint of teeth, his grin.

This grin suggests he’s ignorant of danger. Suggests he assumes he is stronger. Assumes he is safe. I wonder what that’s like, to assume safety.