Diversification #14
As he pushes into her, it’s not quite smooth, the awkwardness with a new body—numb, rubber of the condom, anonymized—as he
figures out how to work into her best. She’s not wet. It’s a dry force.
He grunts when he’s fully inside of her, hips meeting hers. It’s visceral, the sudden, utter wrongness that scalds her, of
someone else being inside of her like this. Her bitten-down nails dig into his shoulders. She feels like she’s about to scream.
All of her logic, all of it, folds.
What is she doing?
What the fuck is she doing?
But she makes herself endure it. Past the building panic in her throat, past the agitated shake of her knee—she can get through
this—if she just gets through this—
No, no, no, no, no—
She turns her head, looking out the half-open window. It lets in the blare of sirens, fluorescence from shops downstairs,
burnt-down incense on the windowsill. A foreign, unwanted rhythm builds in her body.
She can’t stand for this to last any longer than it already has; she hitches her leg higher up. It provokes the punch of his
breath with pleasure against her collarbone, even as all she wants is to force him off her. “Shit,” he breathes. Lili tries
to drown out the sound of his voice with the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears.
When he tries to kiss her neck, she strains her head away, falling back against the pillow.
The burn, the sense of cauterizing herself.
In her hair, his grip tightens each time he thrusts into her. His body feels like a violation. Her knee keeps shaking, and
she feels like her chest is caving in.
She doesn’t want him to come inside of her. She’s glad—so fucking glad—he’s wearing a condom, and when there’s a stifled groan against her shoulder, Lili flinches.
What the fuck has she done?
It’s a blur, not finishing, leaving.
She lets him rest, panting heavily over her body, for a moment, before she shoulders free.
Yanking her boots on, she grabs her shirt from the ground. When he tries to get her number, she gives a noncommittal shrug.
Asks for his bathroom before she leaves, where she uses the toilet, splashes cold water on her face. She can’t look at herself.
She feels sick with emptiness, stepping out onto the street.
Shifting from foot to foot at the subway station on Bowery, she waits for the train near a cluster of drunk kids. Her friends
have tried to call her, dozens of texts: (11:21 p.m.) where are you!!? Somehow, she taps out a response: (11:57 p.m.) sorry felt sick, went home. A homeless man, sitting on the platform bench, watches the flicker of train times on the digital arrivals screen.
She knows when he lands, as she gets back to her place, unlocking her apartment door. She knows because her phone buzzes,
clutched against her keys, metal digging into her palm. A text, his name, and she can’t open it.
In the scalding shower, she scratches at her skin. Steam fills up the tiny bathroom, and she shakes under the water, red trail
marks of her nails over her forearms, her hips.
She knows when he gets home—when he sees the keys on the counter, an empty bed, her things gone, little over a half hour later—because
her phone lights up with an incoming call.
And then another, after the first one runs dead.
And another.
And another.
She curls up on her bed. Wet hair, soft shirt, knees tucked into her chest, she starts to cry.
Aleksandr Petrov.
Aleksandr Petrov.
Aleksandr Petrov.
He keeps calling her, and she can’t—she can’t decline the calls.
Time passes in lurches of his name and her sobs.
Eventually, she hears the creak of the apartment door, followed by the jangle of keys, the clatter of high heels—Jackie, coming
home.
A knock at her bedroom, and she tries to hold back her crying. “Lili?” Her door opens a sliver. “Jesus Christ, answer your
fucking phone, we were looking everywhere for you, plus Petrov’s downstairs—Lili.” The door swings open, her bed dipping as Jackie sits down. “What’s wrong? Are you alright—did he—did he do something?”
“I’m fine,” she whispers. “I’m fine, I promise—”
“You’re not fine,” Jackie says, brushing a hand over Lili’s wet hair. Lili flinches, and Jackie’s hand stills. “Lili,” she
breathes, aghast. “Love, what happened?”
Her phone goes off again, followed by the intercom buzz. Lili clutches her phone tighter, clicking the side button to shut
the sound off but letting the call persist.
And then, her name in the street.
“Lili.” A voice, distant, that makes her entire body yearn.
“He’s downstairs,” Jackie repeats, worried.
“Please,” she whispers. “Please, can you tell him—tell him to go?”
“He looks . . . Lili, he looks really scared.”
“Jackie, please,” she begs, splintering under the heaviness of what she’s done.
Look, see? I can hurt myself, too.
Oh, little one. How well I can see.
A sigh—concern, hesitation—before Jackie stands, then the fall of their apartment door. After a few minutes, she can hear
the faint sounds of their voices, several stories down, through her open window.
“She’s here, she’s home.” Jackie. “She just wants you to go.”
“Jackie, please.” The sound of him makes Lili’s chest feel like it’s collapsing, like she can’t breathe, like she won’t ever be able to breathe
again. “Just ask her to talk to me, she’s not answering anything, not calls, not texts—I just need to know if she’s okay—”
“I’m sorry, really . . . She’s fine, but just—it’s best if you go home, she’s not—she can’t see you right now.”
“Let me up, please.”
Lili’s grip tightens in the sheets.
“I can’t—really, just—she’ll be okay, I promise—”
“Jackie—”
“Just give her a few hours, okay? She’ll be okay, I promise—just give her a few hours, I’ll ask her to call you then, really,
she—she just needs some space right now.”
“Is she alright?”
Getting up, Lili shuts her window. Unable to listen to him in that much pain, that amount of worry.
It doesn’t fully seal out the sounds of the street, though. Their building is too old, cracks in the window: the sounds of
their conversation slip through still, indistinct. Lili holds onto the outline of his voice, the rasp in it, even as she can’t
hear his words.
Several long minutes pass—the tension of stupid fucking hope—before the slam of their apartment door, again. Opening and falling
shut, and only Jackie’s footfalls.
“He’s gone,” Jackie says, slipping back into her room.
But he’s not.
As Jackie curls around Lili, holding her close—and Lili grasps her forearm, grasping for her tighter—he’s still there, outside.
Her breath, ragged: in the room. In the street, his presence.
Against her comforter, her phone rings again.
Aleksandr Petrov.
Lili stares at his name, until it blurs with tears, and the screen goes black.
A second time, after that.
Then, a third.
Finally, she hears a car—his car—start up.
Don’t, she thinks. Don’t leave, don’t leave—
The slow crunch of pavement under tires, as the Maybach pulls away from the curb. Her shoulders start to shake. She’s crying
so hard it’s silent.
“It’s okay,” Jackie murmurs, holding her. No questions, just attempted consolation. “It’s okay, it’s okay—it’ll be okay, I
promise, I promise . . .”
When her phone starts lighting up again—texts, now: still his name, his name, his name—Lili clutches it tighter to her chest. Shutting her eyes, clinging to Jackie’s arms around her.