The Pleasure of Time
by Allison Landa

"The funny thing," he said, "is that my interactions are more intense these days. At the post office, the cafe, wherever. I’m starved for human contact."

She stayed silent.

"It’s ironic, I know. I haven't so much as had dinner with a friend in months." He laughed. "That's what happens when you work as much as I do. Life goes surreal."

The first time he touched her she thought of the obstacle courses she'd run in college, barriers giving sweaty way to victory. Together they scaled the walls, bodies high-fiving. "You never," she said, "had time for me. We started under false pretense."

As the words slipped her throat she knew she was wrong. She was the one who cut it off the first morning. She rolled away from his sweaty, sonorous embrace and consulted herself in the bathroom mirror. His eyes were open when she returned.

"I want to believe it'll get better," he said now. "I'm not sure what to tell you."

She'd hoped she could just slip his grasp and leave unnoticed. But he held his arms out and they fit her well.

"We have to produce a new version every two weeks," he said now, and spun into a more detailed description. He used words like traction and sticky and judgment. "God," he said. "It sounds like punishment. It sounds like hell. Even to me."

He was a nuanced, intuitive lover who played with moments, fine-tuning them. She gave up the fight and arched back into the pillows.

"We make plans," she said now, "and you cancel."

"I don't expect it to let up anytime soon."

"Then we're at a impasse." She wanted to bite back those words. They brought a hammer to the situation, a blunt solid surface seeking to smash whatever remained.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he said. His voice was open and friendly and for that she mistrusted it. "But tell me how I'm supposed to change it. By working less? I'm employee number nine in this company, I have just as much stake in it as anyone else there. We go big and I'm set."

"Then what?"

"Have fun. Take guitar lessons. Let the cat sit on my lap for more than five seconds at a time. You think I don't want to be like you? Be able to enjoy my time?"

He wasn't rushed when he moved over her skin. The first night they took it slow, talked until the cafe closed before following the man in the moon back to his apartment.
 
 

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Allison Landa is an Oakland, California-based writer whose work has been featured in CleanSheets, The Ledge, Poetica Magazine, Swagazine and ArtsFusion. She is also an editor of Monday Night, an annual literary journal.