Out of Convenience
second
The second semester of your junior year proved to be more difficult than the first—paper lengths grew longer, readings became more time-consuming, energy was inconsistent, worries became so constant you began seeing a counselor—but the late night rendezvous with friends and frat boys distanced you from your troubles.
R and his house mates threw parties more often (almost every Thursday night, to be exact), and you eagerly accompanied your friends because even though you had an 8 a.m. class in the morning and would later complain about your lack of sleep, exhaustion was worth it.
Because R began to seek you out more often, and his attention was exhilarating.
It was subtle at first—a lingering glance, a wink or a smirk. Then an arm around your shoulders or a hand on your waist. When you danced bachata, he held you tight and slipped his knee between your legs. And he grew increasingly bold. His smirks turned into the question of “Sit on my face, no?” and it wasn’t the most charming statement, but it set your cheeks aflame easily, a flustered smile pulling at your lips as you said, “How about a rain check?”
R made you feel special, made you feel important when you believed yourself to be insignificant. You were twenty years old and had never been taken on a date. No one had ever kissed you, and since graduating high school, no one showed you any romantic interest. Sometimes, you could hardly look in the mirror because the person, the body, the appearance staring back at you was everything you despised.
But R wanted you. Despite the flaws so obvious to you, the imperfections you could not look past, the ugliness with which you saw yourself, he desired you. And his desire made you feel beautiful.
R and his house mates threw parties more often (almost every Thursday night, to be exact), and you eagerly accompanied your friends because even though you had an 8 a.m. class in the morning and would later complain about your lack of sleep, exhaustion was worth it.
Because R began to seek you out more often, and his attention was exhilarating.
It was subtle at first—a lingering glance, a wink or a smirk. Then an arm around your shoulders or a hand on your waist. When you danced bachata, he held you tight and slipped his knee between your legs. And he grew increasingly bold. His smirks turned into the question of “Sit on my face, no?” and it wasn’t the most charming statement, but it set your cheeks aflame easily, a flustered smile pulling at your lips as you said, “How about a rain check?”
R made you feel special, made you feel important when you believed yourself to be insignificant. You were twenty years old and had never been taken on a date. No one had ever kissed you, and since graduating high school, no one showed you any romantic interest. Sometimes, you could hardly look in the mirror because the person, the body, the appearance staring back at you was everything you despised.
But R wanted you. Despite the flaws so obvious to you, the imperfections you could not look past, the ugliness with which you saw yourself, he desired you. And his desire made you feel beautiful.