“I don’t remember walking up the stairs,” she says. A small line forms between her eyes as she attempts to recall the night before. “No, wait. I do.”
He leans in. He kisses behind her ear, breathing in softly. His favorite place to kiss her. “I hope you remember more than just walking up the stairs.” His lips migrate to her shoulder.
She sits up straighter. “What?” she says. “What should I remember?”
He slides closer. “Woman, you pretty much raped me last night. I’ve never seen you so . . . energetic.”
His words have a Taser--like effect. Despite the pain that he knows blooms behind her eyes, she sits bolt upright with surprising speed.
“Don’t say that. Don’t say ‘rape’ like it’s some sort of recreation. Jesus, Richard.”
He exhales audibly. Great, here we go again.
“I’m sorry,” he says instantly. “That was wrong. You know I didn’t mean anything by it, Carrie.”
“Actually, I have no idea what you meant by it. What did you mean?”
He scootches up to a sitting position. “You were just really into it last night. Not that you aren’t always into it. But last night you were really . . . assertive. And it was good, okay? I liked it.” He says the last part softly. “You liked it, too.”
She swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands.
“Don’t presume to tell me what I like, Richard. Or maybe I should start calling you Dick? I wouldn’t mean anything by it.” She begins her march to the door.
“Carrie. C’mon, don’t be like this.”
She grabs the mesh bag.
He slips from the bed and stands, barring her passage at the door.
“Move,” she says.
He folds his arms across his chest. “Not until we talk.”
She tries to push past him, reaching for the knob, but he blocks her.
“Richard, move.”
He doesn’t budge.
Shocked surprise spreads across her face. Carrie is not used to being thwarted.
“You are not going to stomp off in a huff,” he says calmly. “We are going to talk like civilized people. Can you be civilized?”
“Are you threatening me?” Incredulity in her voice.
“See, that’s what I don’t get. You see talking as a threat. That’s not good, Carrie. It suggests you have problems with basic communication.”
“I’m not talking about talking. I’m talking about you, standing there, not letting me out of my own room!” Her voice rises. The shower sounds from next door have stopped. If she starts yelling, the Hippie Witch might decide to involve herself.
Richard leans back against the door. “What I said about last night? That was stupid. I’m sorry. I was being . . . what do you call it? . . . glib.”
She doesn’t respond.
“This is the part where you say, ‘I accept your apology,’” he continues.
“I don’t know if I can be with such an insensitive dumbass,” she says instead.
“Sure you can,” he says. “Because you know I don’t mean anything by it. You’re just so damn indoctrinated by the PC police that you have to hate on anything that isn’t überenviro--feminist. It’s killing your sense of humor, Carrie. Do you even have one left? Seriously, what makes you laugh?”
Carrie’s eyes narrow. “A lot of things make me laugh. Here’s what doesn’t: hate speech. Words that promote violence against women. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that.”
He nods. “Even a dumbass like me gets that.” He thinks he detects a flicker of light in her eyes when he refers to himself as a dumbass.
“You know what?” she says. “When you apologize for the stupid things you say? It’s not because you get what you’ve said or you’re even sorry for saying it. You’re just sorry I’m annoyed.”
“Well, of course I’m sorry you’re annoyed! What’s wrong with that? Would you rather I enjoyed annoying you? Wow, pissing off Carrie is great! That’s one hell of a good time!”
“I so wish you weren’t such a Neanderthal.”
“Yeah, until you want a Neanderthal,” he mutters.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” Richard steps away from the door. He’s tired. He glances around the room for his clothes. He’ll leave while she’s showering. She never invites him to stay for breakfast.
He expects her to move to the unblocked door. But Carrie has more to say.
“Richard, do you not get what I do on Tuesday nights?”
He sighs. Of course. Her shift. Her all--important, saving--the--world--one--hysterical--girl--at--a--time shift, answering the phone at the college’s just--created helpline. Which is supposed to be a rape crisis line, but has turned out to be where freshmen females call when their underage roommates barf uncontrollably after drinking too many vodka shots. They call the helpline instead of campus security. Or an ambulance.
At least, that’s how Carrie described her first two weeks answering the line. She almost seemed disappointed that nobody was sexually assaulted on her watch.
His jeans are draped over the back of her desk chair. He pulls them on.
“I asked you a question,” Carrie says.
“I apologized,” Richard says evenly.