Well This Is Interesting

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On a trip to the city, a friend takes her to dinner. It’s not a date, she’s not ready for a date, what is that even. It feels like one of the best dates she’s ever had, but they’re just friends, okay yes, they’re friends who did it a couple times a million years ago but still it’s not a date. Even though he tells her like sixteen times that she looks fucking amazing and sexy as shit and holds her hand and asks her a million questions and listens to what she’s saying and looks in her eyes while they’re talking and orders oysters and appetizers and pays for dinner and they walk across the village for dessert. Not a date.

But it feels like a date, and it especially feels like a date in her pants, and it’s when she has this feeling in her pants that she thinks to herself, Well this is interesting, because she and her husband have been collaborating (well look at that) on this whole story that it takes her way longer to get going, and here she is getting going, and she’s in a restaurant basically just having a conversation. It isn’t until later that she stops to think more about it, not about what might happen with her friend, but about what hasn’t happened with the husband for a good little while, something she’s been telling herself is about her, and her body, and is maybe not about her or her body, or at least not in the draft of the story they co-wrote about it, and has been about not engaging with her husband in this way for a good little while.

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