Page 21 of Sexting the Pakhan

When aren’t you calm?

The elevator doors slide shut behind me. My reflection stares back at me in brushed steel: broad shoulders, dark shirt, bruised knuckles, blood cleaned away but not forgotten.

When something gets my full attention,I write.

That one takes longer.

Then:Is this your way of saying I have your attention?

I look at that message and smile again.You still replying?

Her answer is immediate:Annoyingly, yes.

Good.

The penthouse is quiet when I walk in. Dim, expensive, orderly. Floor-to-ceiling glass, dark stone, soft light from the lamps that come on automatically. No clutter. No softness. A place designed for control.

I set my keys down. Undo the top button of my shirt. Leave the jacket draped over the back of a chair.

My phone buzzes in my hand.

What do you look like?

There it is.

I walk to the kitchen, pour a drink I don’t want, and look out over the city before I answer.

Tall. Dark hair. Bad habits.

Three dots.

Bad habits sounds made up.

It isn’t.

How old are you?

I lean a hip against the counter.Old enough to know that question matters to you.

A long pause.

Then:It does.

Why?

The answer comes slower this time.Because you sound older than me.

I’ve known from the beginning she’s younger. It’s in the way she moves through the conversation, the flicker between hesitation and boldness, the quick recovery every time she says something that embarrasses her.

What matters is that she knows it too. And she keeps texting anyway.

Does that bother you?I ask.

A full minute passes.

Then:Not yet.

Heat moves under my skin, measured and deep.