I drove Ash to my house—my apartment in the Oregon district. I think Jules said she lives right across Jefferson—or maybe over Monument. She said she had a little loft.
“I’ll see you at Mead,” I say. I’m locking my car and Ash is tromping down the street to hers. “See you soon!”
She doesn’t say anything. I know what she’s thinking. It’s something like: Didn’t any of that mean anything to you? Was nothing we said, for real? Doesn’t anyone have traditional relationships anymore? I want my key back. That’s me. I want my damn key back. I want to be able to take Jules to my place and not have Ash walk in on us because she still has the damn key. Or already be there like she would have if I had taken Jules here today.
(“I thought you said you lived alone?”
“I do.”
“Then who’s that singing in the shower?”
Except Ashley doesn’t sing in the shower. But you get the idea.)
And fuck! She left the door unlocked! I’m at the top of the stairs. I turn the handle and push the door inside my living room. Unbelievable! All my friends think that it’s some kind of energetic faux-pas to lock your door—like the act of locking your door is keeping good energy from entering your life or that you’re asking to have your house broken into and all your stuff stolen if you lock your door. Ashley leaves her whole house unlocked down by Mead.
I step in and lock the door. Definitely getting that key back today. The bathroom light is on, the carpet in front of the bathroom is wet. Did she sleep in my bed? It doesn’t look like it. Maybe she made it back up. I kneel by the futon and smell the comforter. Wouldn’t that be sweet. If I brought Jules back here and she smelled Ashley on the sheets. Jules could probably smell her, too, she’s got just that kind of sensitivity.
The camera’s on, on my computer. When I walk past, video of me plays on the screen. And she’s recording! What the hell is she doing in here, recording herself masturbate?
(Jules double-clicks an icon on the desktop. “What’s this?”
“Oh! That?! The file named AshleyMasturbating123? That’s nothing. Let’s just drag that to the trash.” In fact: ignore anything that ends in “.hardPorn”)
Fuck me. This sort of thing could happen. Ruin a perfectly good kernel of some twenty-year-old that I desperately want to get inside her panties.
But it’s more than that.
It is more than that, right?
I think about our night together—our morning. About her acting in the show. About our talks. And about our kiss.
Yeah. Definitely. It’s more than that.
I take my time. I wash my hair. I pick out new clothes and I floss my teeth extra well. When I shave, this time, I think about kissing Jules and I make sure every little hair around my lips has been trimmed or plucked.
I masturbate, but I don’t think of Jules. It wouldn’t be right. There’s a power thing that goes on in your mind when you think of someone while you masturbate. Whether or not it affects them is a matter of quantum-pseudo-scientific debate that I’m not willing to get into. But it definitely affects you. I don’t want to have that kind of static between me and Jules, even in my own mind. She’s special. So this time when I jerk off I don’t think of anyone. I just touch myself and come.