He fucked me after his version of a cooked meal, which is to say: a microwaved dish of brown meat with not enough sauce and too many peppercorns. Steak a la poovercorn, He said. He meant ‘au poivre’. But I didn’t say anything. He did not know any better. When I put my napkin over my plate, he did not know where to put his arms. He did not know what I meant when I said, more. He licked my belly button. My belly button is sticky and smells like a Band-Aid that has been on too long. He has been on me too long. His body is loose and heavy at the same time. He points his toes just before he is about to come. I watch the thick black hairs on his feet and wonder when you know something is done.
Jenessa Abrams is a Norman Mailer Fiction Fellow. Her writing has been published in Tin House Online, Joyland, Guernica, BOMB Magazine and elsewhere. She has an MFA in fiction and literary translation from Columbia University.