I let the boy flirt, and I borrowed his tools. It was the best way I knew to return the attention.
He would ask me about my latest project, every afternoon at the mailboxes. He loved when I painted; he became a child when I worked with wood. I hid my toolbox the day I asked for his help.
He smelled like gasoline and fresh paint. When he bent down to inspect my unfinished knife block, I stared at the sweat on his neck and arms—young tan skin stretched tight over new muscles. I laughed to myself.
He looked up, wounded. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing. You are young. Very young.’
He grinned his answer. ‘Nah. I’m legal.’
I shook my head and turned my attention back to the ugly knife block. He praised my craftsmanship, all lies and odd compliments, and I thanked him.
‘I can come back tomorrow with some things to help with the detailing. It’s coming along nicely.’
He returned every day that week, and I ended the flirting by Wednesday. I told him that if I have a choice between trite flirtations and a substantial friendship, I’ll take the latter every time. He said he didn’t know what trite meant.
I asked him about school, about his girlfriends, and when his curiosity for my personal life seemed close to climax, I told him about the two men I had married and divorced within a ten-year span. Without wisdom or boundaries, he asked about the sex. ‘I mean, what are you into?’ he said.
I sighed and played dumb. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sex is sex.’
He persisted. ‘You never tried new things?’
I thought of all I had tried and I wanted to pinch him for his audacity. I had done it all, to the point of boredom. But I gave in and shrugged.
He said, ‘You ever try any S&M stuff?’
‘You bold little bastard. You know, it’s no prize when kinks and pain become necessary to feel something. It’s a sad degradation of intimacy to rely on pain. You should feel the person. Not the perversion.’ I imagined him on a bed—
‘Okay. Sorry.’ He grimaced and I softened.
‘I just don’t like to be hurt,’ I said.
He nodded.
By Friday his eyes burned with some private anticipation he refused to share. ‘I had an idea. Can we use your bedroom?’
He guided me there before I answered. I never answered. He had me stand with my knees touching the bed. He slipped his hand inside the back of my shirt. Between my shoulder blades, he pressed something cold and sharp into my back, then slowly dragged it down. When he reached my waist, he turned and went up my spine, pressing the tip against my skin. Harder.
He moved closer to me. My legs pressed into the bed.
‘Sometimes, it’s not about pain,’ he said. ‘But mercy. An occasion for mercy.’
I felt his breath on the back of my neck, then his lips and I closed my eyes. Shallow breath, I said, ‘Harder.’
***
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