Midnight Lunch: An Erotic Story about Microwave Omelets

by Robin Watergrove

  To call it a kiss is to place the emphasis too strongly on one star in a constellation. It’s incredible on its own, sure, but the amazement comes from seeing every spark of light all at once, as a whole. Her mouth is wonderful, but it’s the closeness that’s so erotic. I lean into her, so my leg is pressed to hers, her breast is against my chest. I nuzzle into her neck, press my face to her hair. I lose myself in sensation, no longer a person, just a bale of oversensitive nerves. I kiss her for my own pleasure and feel her sigh. She leaves her lips resting slightly apart when I pull away, like an invitation to come back.

  The sidewalk felt dangerous when we were just sitting on it. Now we’re making out in public, in the middle of the city, well after midnight. The danger swells in my chest; there are bigger things to worry about than the store getting robbed when I’m not looking. I pull Maria up and she follows me back into the store without a word. I lead her to the backroom and leave the door ajar.

  It’s a narrow, rectangular space, with a waist-height counter along one short edge, boxes along both of the long walls, and a cluster of overloaded coat hooks on the other short wall.

  She’s watching me with dark eyes, looking sleepier now than I’ve ever seen her. I kiss her softly and she curls her shoulders toward me. She puts one of my hands on her breast and I moan into her mouth. I’m half-listening for the bell on the front door and half-ready to fuck the night shift and take her home.

  Just three weeks into this job and I’m going to lose it.

  Maria puts her hand flat on my chest and I pull back. She looks at my face, up at my hair, down at my lips, then at her own hand on my shirt. She doesn’t say anything. I’m looking at her, stricken by how lovely she is, but cautious. I’m not sure what’s going on, if she wants to stop or if she just wants to look at me.

  It feels strange for us both to be standing. I want her to rest, to relax, to feel like she has time and space, to know we’re in no rush, but i don’t know how to say that, or suggest that we move. So I just pick her up, as quickly and non-sexually as I can, and set her on the counter, next to the phone and the radio. I smooth her skirt down and stand in the V of her legs, looking up at her.

  Maria smiles and takes my head in both of her hands. She asks, “Do you bring a lot of girls back here?”

  I shake my head, “Just you. But I mean,” I exaggerate a shrug, “I did just start working here. There’s still time.”

  She snorts. She strokes her fingers through my hair; I close my eyes. It feels incredible, like I have never been touched like this before. I don’t feel her moving closer so I startle when she kisses me. My heart is still nervous and tight in my chest. I feel like I’m always on the verge of losing her when I look away, afraid object permanence doesn’t apply to lovely white-haired ghosts. She keeps her hands behind my head and kisses me. She opens my lips with her own and touches our tongues together. No suggestive twist or reach. She just touches the inside of me with the inside of her, pulls back, and does it again. I put my hands on her ass and pull her forward on the counter. She wraps her legs around my hips and pulls me closer still.

  It’s an embrace with no momentum. I hold her and that’s it. We kiss in slow motion. I’m not taking her clothes off. I’m careful not to push up her skirt. I just snuggle into her and kiss her neck, kiss her chin. Her hair feels as soft as it looks. I hold her and it feels like it matters. Like I’m holding her on the edge of a long drop, or holding her heat in when it’s too cold outside, holding her coat on when the wind’s trying to take it off.

  I let her kiss me harder than I kiss her back. The longer we touch, the more I feel her tender spots, rising to the surface, making themselves known. Like everyone who lies playfully, she has a lot to lose. I can see it in her eyes. She’s breakable. She knows it, and now I know it too. She lets me grab her hips, but she shivers when I touch her ears. Those quiet eyes aren’t apathetic, just careful what they let you see.

  I say I want sex, but when I’m nose-to-nose with a beautiful girl and I think I can see her needs through her skin, I want whatever she wants. She touches my lips and I tell her how beautiful she is. I tell her she’s an apparition in this city. I steal lines from my own fantasies and whisper them into the skin behind her ear.

  We slow and slow. Moving slower than I thought two people could touch. Slower than sleep. So slow it takes concentration. So slow it’s not erotic. It’s something else.

  It’s erotic to kiss a girl on the sidewalk. But to stand with her—even with the warmth of her pussy radiating through my shirt to my stomach—wrapped up in my arms, with her legs around my waist, my fingers in her hair, it’s not. The black-eyed hunger of lust is gone; this is too tender for selfishness. Now I’m just taking care of a girl. That’s kind of a hook up, I reason; I don’t know her at all and I’m still giving her everything. At least it’s got the emotional recklessness of a hook up.

  The slower we move, the more she melts. She rolls her hips, pushing her crotch against me, and I kiss the flush on her face. One cheek, then the other. She stays for half an hour past when she said she had to go. When I finally help her off the counter, neither one of us says much. She tells me she’ll come again and I kiss the back of her neck. She walks backward to the door and says she wants another omelet. I nod at her, ruffled and wet, grinning shaky like we just fucked for ninety minutes instead of snuggled.

  I tame my hair in the glass doors’ reflection and put enough money in the register to cover the food I made for her.

  The old butch comes in. I accidentally beam at her, teeth showing and everything.

  She laughs, “You having a good night?”

  “Yeah,” I try to wipe my grin off on my sleeve.

  “Your girlfriend come around again?”

  “Yeah.” I blush at the counter. The title doesn’t faze me. It barely registers. It’s the warmth in my face and my stomach that’s overwhelming. Or better said, unexpected. Just from hearing her say, “your girlfriend.” My girlfriend.

  She carries her coffee to the counter and hands me a twenty. I hand her the change and she hands it right back. The same exchange every night. She says, “Buy something nice for your girl.”

  I nod, still smiling, “I will.” I’ve been thinking about it since I got home yesterday, right after our first kiss. I want to buy Maria something nice, or give her the cash if that’s what she needs. I add the money to the growing stack in my back pocket. I’m just the guardian of this; it’s not mine. My protective instincts are lit up and I feel, irrationally, like I’m working to support her and she just doesn’t know it yet. It feels like a cheesy romcom set-up where I blow her mind with my romantic dedication.

  Maria comes back the next night. I make her put my work schedule in her phone so she knows when I’ll be around and when I won’t. We make out in the back room again. She puts my hands under her shirt and I spread my fingers over her ribs. I stroke the underside of her breasts with the backs of my fingers and we both moan. I palm her breast with her nipple between my index and middle fingers and feel myself shaking. I’m so wet, I’m losing my shit. I push up her shirt with my free hand and pull her other nipple into my mouth, surging against her. It’s dark and soft and warm. She gasps and I suck, flicking the tip with my tongue. Fuck, she smells so good.

  Suddenly, she pushes on my head. I lift up and she tugs her shirt down. I jump and pull my hands off of her, “Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “No, no,” Maria puts her hand on her face, “It’s fine. I just don’t—” she shakes her head, “Sorry. I don’t know.”

  “No, I’m sorry. That wasn’t cool. I don’t want to—” I swallow, trying to pull my thoughts together, “I want to be good to you. Just do what you want. So, let me know, okay? If I do something you don’t want.”

  She nods. I make her food and tell her jokes on the curb until she has to leave.

  The next night, I buy a sleeping bag on clearance at the sporting goods store at the mall and hide it in the trash until Parteek leaves. I
bring it inside and unzip it to a flat sheet on the backroom floor, so we have “some space, some options,” I tell her. She smiles at me with one eyebrow cocked.

  I say, “Spoon with me.”

  I hold her the whole hour, her body curled inside the curve of mine, my arm under her breasts, around her ribs, her hips in my lap. She tells me about a dog that lives in her neighborhood who has “at least fifty sweaters. I swear, every day it’s a different sweater.”

  I laugh into her hair, “It’s fall, too. What kind of insane dog-coat game is he going to have in the winter?”

  She laughs, I hold her tighter. She asks if I’m in school and I tell her about my classes. She asks how long I’ll be working here and I can’t tell if she’s just asking questions, or she’s worried I’m going to disappear.

  Maria comes around every night to spend one of the quiet hours with me. Sometimes, customers come in and I leave her to stand at the counter, looking as bored and buttoned-up as I can. Sometimes, Parteek calls and I take a deep breath to depress the sound of my voice before answering. Every time I come back to her, it’s like falling back asleep to return to a good dream.

  Every hour I spend with her leaves a week’s worth of strong emotions in my chest. I realize, after she leaves our ninth “lunch” date, that I’ve been lonely for a long time. I stop thinking about sleeping with sleepy customers. I fall asleep each morning as the sun is rising after making myself come to thoughts of her, warm and whispery, tucked up against me.

  I don’t try to take her clothes off again. I touch her breasts through her shirt, palm her thighs through her skirt or pants or tights. I kiss her chest along the scoop of her neckline. I caress every inch of her arms with my nose and lips. I suck on her fingers when she’s horny and grinding against me.

  When you fall in love, it happens slowly. First, you realize you don’t know what love is. Then you fall.

  If she’s wearing a jacket, I like to tip it off her shoulders. Sex isn’t about orgasms. Sometimes it’s a hoodie, sometimes it’s a coat. I ease the collar up and back. I can feel her body heat in the gap. I tip it back off her shoulders and smell her skin. I can get a quarter of what I want from staring at a girl, maybe I can get the rest just like this.

  The second thing you realize, when you fall in love, is you don’t know what you want. I want to ask her if I can come see her on my day off, but I’m afraid to break the spell.

  —————

  I skip breakfast—what I’d call dinner—on Friday, my first day off all week, and go straight to bed. When I wake up it’s ramen and instant coffee in my dusky kitchen because I blew my food budget on Mini Mart food for Maria.

  I put on men’s pants, a t-shirt, a jacket made for a very small guy, and a snapback. Georgia says I try to look more gay on my days off to make up for the work-day uniform. I head for the big book store downtown to window shop until it closes at midnight.

  I turn down the long block across from the post office distribution center and there she is. White hair, black clothes, drifting along next to the chain link fence like a ghost. My first instinct isn’t to call out or greet her, but to tackle her. My chest thumps, telling me to catch her like a lightning bug. I want to protect her. I want to wrap her up and hold her, like I’m supposed to.

  “Maria!” I shout, but there’s no need because she’s already looking at me. She changes course, crossing the street to reach me. In the last three steps before she’s in front of me, I fight myself to stand still. I want to sweep her up. To kiss her, lovesick and crazy, out here in the dark, where half the streetlights are broken. I want to catch her face in my hands and say over and over, ‘Are you okay? Are you okay out here?’ Because she lies like a professional, but she let a Mini Mart clerk kiss her so softly in the back room. I want to cradle her. I want to claim her. But she’s not mine.

  Maria says, “You stay up all night on your days off?”

  She pauses when she’s right in front of me, so briefly I can barely tell, then looks down as she takes the last step into me. She just steps forward and into my chest, like I’ll catch her. Like an embrace is expected, the only way we would ever greet each other. My arms pull her in without my prompting. I hold her close and silent for a second, trying to catch my breath.

  I whisper, “Yeah.”

  She asks my shoulder, “So what are you up to?”

  “I’m taking you to breakfast.”

  Maria laughs. I catch her with a kiss. It feels so real out here. She feels like a real person, really in my arms, really tipping my hat back on my head and smoothing my hair to the side.

  I take her to a cool cafe where they serve breakfast all night. We sit in a booth and our feet touch under the table. I pay for her food and she doesn’t protest. When we leave, I put my arm around her and she leans into my side.

  There’s no good way to ask, ‘so are we dating?’ It feels like something I should already know. But when I’m just as close to saying, ‘I love you,’ I can’t find the courage to ask something so simple. I’m in too deep.

  I’m walking her around the best parts of my neighborhood when she says, “So, I want to invite you back to my place.”

  “Okay,” I try to sound neutral.

  “But I can’t. So can I invite myself over to your place?”

  “Oh, yeah, of course!” I scramble, embarrassed I didn’t already invite her, “Do you want to— I mean, yeah, please do. Let’s go. To my place. Like, now or whenever you wanted to go. Any time.”

  She nods. Then smiles. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  We hold hands on the way to my apartment. My chest is tight and disbelieving. What are we outside of our nook in the back of the store? Who are we? What do we do?

  I listen through the door before I open it, hoping my roommates are in their rooms. It’s past eleven and they’re usually in bed by now, watching Netflix on their laptops until they fall asleep. I lead Maria into the kitchen; it’s empty. I ask if she’s hungry or thirsty, if she wants to go to the bathroom. She shakes her head.

  I lead her by the hand into my room. I close the door behind us and lock it. I stand, for just a second, with my hand on the doorknob. My heart is pounding, my hands are sweating. I’m trying to ask myself, honestly, what I think we’re going to do in here. I’m wide awake and I’m locked in with her and a bed and my body only has one gear that it’s revving as loud as it can.

  I turn around to see Maria sitting on my bed. She crawls backward on her hands and brings her feet up onto the mattress. She kicks off her shoes. Her skirt rumples around her hips. I can see green underwear through her black tights. She giggles and unzips her hoodie. I take a step forward as she shoulders her coat off and throws it at me. I catch it and drop it. She sits back on her elbows and lets one knee fall open.

  I start shaking my head. I crawl onto the bed, straddling her with my knees on either side of her hips. I set my hands on either side of her shoulders and lose it. I fall to my forearms. Framing her head, cradling her, I press my forehead to hers, breathing hard like I might cry. I whisper, “Oh my god, Maria.” I barely breathe the sounds, telling her lips, trying to tell her closer, tell her better, “Oh my god, oh my god.” I’m braced over her like a roll cage, barely touching her. My hands are shaking in her hair and I’m kissing her, mumbling, “You are so beautiful. You have no idea.”

  She whimpers back like she’s trying to keep quiet. She puts her hands on my shoulders to keep me close. She takes my hat off and puts it back on. I tell her I love it when she touches my hair. She bites her lip when I look into her eyes.

  I ask her, “What can I do for you?”

  We’re already one puddle on top of the comforter. Her knees are bent and I’m laying between her legs. We’ve laid like this before, but now the air is crackling with intention and I feel like I’m breathing lust up and out of my lungs like sparks.

  She says, “Take my tights off.”

  So I sit back on my heels. I raise her skirt with both hands and slip my fingers un
der the tights’ elastic waistband. I pull them down and she lifts her hips. I stare at her milky thighs and pull the nylon down and off her feet.

  I kiss the dimples in her knees with my lips, then kiss the underside of the joint with my whole mouth. I lick the sensitive crease and she moans, then cuts the sound off. I kiss up her inner thigh and she spreads her legs. I groan when I reach the edge of her underwear. I press my cheek flat against her pussy. I can smell her through the fabric, warm and floral. I raise my eyebrows to look up at her as I nose against her labia, pressing softly all over, feeling her out.

  I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. Something about the smell of it, feeling the damp heat of a girl’s underwear on my face, sets my instincts rolling. I lay flat on my stomach and let my legs hang off the side of the bed. I reach around the thickest swell of Maria’s hips and pull her ass and thighs toward me so she’s right under me, spread like a feast. I love her curves. I lift her, not off the bed, just a little upward tug, to feel the weight of her legs on my arms.

  I kiss the crease of her thigh and start edging under the seam of her underwear, kissing the edge of her outer labia. Her pubic hair is trimmed short. It pricks my lips and nose.

  She asks, “You gonna take my shirt off first?”

  I nod, grinning loosely. I detangle myself from her legs and crawl up her body again. I lift the hem of her shirt and she arches her back. When I pull it over her shoulders, she rounds them up off the bed to help me. Her breasts look softer in the light of my room. They look tender and sensitive, less like the irresistibly erotic things that drove me out of my mind in the back room.

  I sit on her hips and trace the under curves lightly. Maybe it’s just the way she’s looking up at me, nearly naked with her hair mussed on my bed, that makes her look so fragile. I slide my thumb gently up and over one nipple, “Can I use my mouth?”

  Maria nods.

  I curl over her and put both of my hands on her ribs, with my fingers wrapped around the back. I breathe hot and slow over one nipple and she arches up, pushing it into my mouth. I make a muffled noise and lower her back to the bed. I lick with a flat tongue, then a pointed tip. I suck and pinch the nub between my teeth. I flick it back and forth with my tongue, then massage it in my mouth. Each time, I’m listening to see how she responds, which movement makes her breath catch. Sucking made her groan, so I suck on the other nipple and massage the first with my fingertips. I suck harder and her stomach jumps. I reach down, quickly, and stroke my hand firmly up her pussy. She makes the sound I’m searching for. An open-mouthed moan that judders out, breath fighting with sensation. I do it again, sucking hard and stroking her. Maria twists and stretches under me. She lifts her chest closer to me and pushes her hips down into my touch. I keep going. The cardinal rule of sex with a girl: when you’ve found something she likes, don’t stop doing it. Just keep going and going. Do it for as long as you can. Until she tells you to stop.