It’s another one of those cringe worthy moments, as he liberally peppers the word “girlfriend” into the conversation. But she’s weathered much worse manipulation tactics from much more sadistic men, so rather than flinching or smiling she just holds her face stone cold. She gives him no tells, doesn’t want him to know how she feels about his misuse of the word. She’ll let it fly, giving the extremity of the circumstances, as she sits, legs propped up on the ledge, leaning back lackadaisically in her plastic chair, phone clutched between ear and shoulder. The walls are so white and so sterile, although, no they’re not actually white, just some off color creamy tone that projects the same dismal effect of an all white room. Except for that plate of glass in front of her, and there he is, behind it.
As she dutifully listens to his instructions to call his mom, because he hasn’t, and although he’s been here for a few days now, and he’s supposed to be flying up to Seattle with his mom tomorrow, he still hasn’t called his mom. He had, instead, decided that calling her was a much better idea. Which made her question what the past two months of casual fucking really meant to him. Because here she is, legs slightly splayed in an almost sexual manner, because while she’s trying to convince herself to lie to his mother that she’s never even talked to before in her life, she’s simultaneously trying increase the sexual tension in this distinctly unsexual situation. Not because sexualizing the situation will in any way make it more bearable, but mostly because she’s bored and sex is always at the forefront of her brain.
Or she could not call his mom. Or she could not have picked up the phone when he called the first time. Or she could not have showed up and just let him sit there and think about what he did. On some level it gave her a burst of sadistic pleasure to imagine him doing it, which might explain why she decided to let her blouse fall unbuttoned so low.
But she is not his girlfriend, nor does she want to be, despite even the thoughts that are racing through her head right now. How he’ll probably fuck her even better than before after being locked up in this jail for a few days. As he stares at her from behind the plate glass, she can feel how badly he wants to fuck her in the ass, and she knows how violent it will be, and how almost scary, as he chokes and chokes and chokes her. And then afterwards he’ll hold her, and then he’ll say something tender, and she also gets off on knowing that coming through for him means that he owes her one. A favor, a big one at that.
She’ll have to convince him first that she’s here because she’s a good person and she cares about him as a person. That it’s not just a piqued interest in a some bizarre situation that has momentarily lifted her out of her sunshine drunken twenty-something hipster malaise. Because heaven forbid someone mistake her generous behavior for “girlfriend material.” No, she’s not that, mostly because she feels slightly less guilty about fucking his friend knowing that there’s no way he’s going to find out while he’s in jail.
Although she slightly wanders what he’s going to say to her when he gets free. How he’ll say thank you, and despite her self loathing exterior, on the inside, there’s a little girl whose heart skips a beat when a boy is nice to her.