Deeper and Deeper

July 23, 2005
Steve's house - showering with Tim

I don't normally turn every light in the bathroom on when I shower, but then again, I don't normally shower with the likes of Tim. And I'm making the most of it, too, marveling at the way her round boobs and curvy thighs shine with the running water.

For some time now, I've been dying to ask her about the scar on her knee. This is no ordinary fell-off-the-bike scar: It's eight or nine inches long, thick, and twists grotesquely around her right kneecap, as if some demented surgeon tried to remove her patella. It looks all the more horrible when compared to the rest of her flawless body, and I actually cringe a bit when I think of what must have happened to her.

I haven't asked her until now, for two reasons: First, I have found that being too inquisitive can work against me. Paying some attention to a girl is good; it shows you are interested. Paying too much attention can make you look overzealous, or in extreme cases, creepy. I like to err on the side of caution and make her wonder about how much I really care.

Secondly, I am sure that every other guy she's ever been with has asked her about the scar. She's probably tired of hearing it. If I am the one who doesn't ask about it, I'll stand out in her mind much more than the ones who do. If there's one thing I hate, it's being lumped in with a bunch of other people.

But my curiosity has gotten the better of me. The scar is probably the result of a car wreck or a freak childhood accident, but on the off chance that she was assaulted or something, I might score some points by showing her my compassionate side. And I'm pretty sure that these points are the kind that can be redeemed for ass-fucks.

"How did you get that scar?" I ask, looking at her, not at her knee.

"It's nothing. It happened when I was a little kid," she says quickly, almost as if she was expecting the question, her voice completely devoid of emotion. "Can you hand me that shampoo?" she asks, pointing to a tall bottle on the shower ledge. I hand it to her.

She doesn't offer any more information, and I don't ask.

**********

Thursday, September 1, 2005
Tim's house

"I have something for you, Tim," I say.

"What?"

I reach into my pocket and pull out a flat, six inch-long box, wrapped tightly in shiny silver paper.

"What is this?"

"Open it!"

She pulls the paper away. Tiffany's, it says on the top. She looks at me, her smile fading. "What are you up to, Steve?"

"Open it up!"

She opens the box. Inside, lovingly resting on a black velvety cushion, is a candy necklace.

"You are so weird," she laughs.

"You said you liked them!"

She puts it on. It actually looks kind of attractive, hugging her neck tightly like a pastel-colored choker chain.

"You're so sweet," she says, casting her eyes downward, fiddling nervously with the box.

"Because I gave you a candy necklace?"

"Because you did something nice for me."

"You're welcome."

She kisses me softly on the cheek.

There's a question that I have to ask her, something that I know I shouldn't. It's against everything that I have learned, relationship-wise, but the need to know still burns and eats at me. The words refuse to stay inside, like a mouthful of sour milk that I have to spit out.

"What happened with you and Dom?" I ask, and immediately regret it.

I don't care what happened. Or at least, I shouldn't care. But Dom seems so successful with the ladies, so effortlessly popular, that I can't imagine any girl not being interested in him. I do alright, too, but if anything, Dom and I are equals in that department; why does she prefer me over him? Why did she dump him for me?

She shrugs. "It just didn't work out." It was a casual reply, a reply that tells me she hasn't thought about this very much.

"Why?"

"Steve, you know Dom."

"Dom liked you."

"No he didn't!"

"He's pissed at me, you know. About us. I'm happy you're with me, but he is mad."

"He's pissed because he lost."

"Why did he lose?"

She tilts her head at me. "Why do you care?" she smiles.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"What."

"Why me? I mean, you could have anyone-"

I have no idea what's come over me. I know how the game works. I know why she is drawn to me: I act like a conceited, arrogant son of a bitch, and I'm successful, and that piques her interest. But maybe I want to think that it goes deeper than that. Maybe it does!

I expect Tim to tell me to reel it in, to take a deep breath, to think, to stop being such an insecure wimp. But she looks thoughtfully to the side for a long few seconds and then speaks.

"Because you make me laugh. And I feel safe with you."

It's times like these that make me wonder if I know anything about girls at all. If you had told me a month ago that I'd be opening myself up to Tim this way, I'd have told you you were crazy. Showing my cards like this should have been relationship suicide. But my gut told me to do it anyway, and I did, and sure enough, I got a response I didn't bargain for.

Since when does Tim care about "feeling safe"? And how unlikely is it that we two bed-hopping commitment-phobes are sitting around, sharing our innermost vulnerabilities?

**********

Wednesday, September 14, 2005, 8:00am
Wachovia Bank lobby

I'm filling out a deposit slip when the door swings open and a short, busty blonde walks in. From the corner of my eye, she looks familiar. She looks just like....

"Tim!"

"Steve!" She laughs out loud. "We've gotta stop meeting like this!"

"What'cha doing?"

"Needed to cash some checks from work. You?"

Something underneath the collar of her pink polo shirt catches my eye. "What's that?" I ask.

"What's what?"

I reach under her collar and pull out....

the candy necklace.

She blushes.

"You're still wearing it?"

"Mm-hmm." she smiles warmly.

"Why?"

"Ste-eve!"

"Tell me."

"Just because."

"Do you wear it all the time?"

"Sometimes." Long pause. "When I'm thinking about you."

"Hey, you wanna hang out later?"

"Sure!"

**********

Tim's house
8:00pm

It's great having a girlfriend who likes to cook. I've taken to inviting myself over once or twice a week, and I'm always treated to some orgasmically-delicious concoction that she's testing out for her catering business.

"Did you like the creme broulee?"

"It was great! Do you have any more?"

"No. Was it too sugary?"

"Nope. Perfect."

"Do you think it was underdone?"

"Tim! It was fine!"

"Sorry." She plops down on the sofa next to me, one leg folded under her, her head against mine. We sit this way by habit now, without even thinking about it. Instinctively, I put my arm around her.

"Hey," I say.

"Hm?"

"How did you get that scar?"

"You don't wanna know."

"Yeah, I do."

"It's from when I was raped."