She was standing behind me in the Monoprix, wearing a shitty red plaid shirt, black jeans. Cute short hair, douchey smile. I paid for four plastic bags and was loading them when I saw her pluck one of mine with elegant, dirty fingernails and put her can of tomatoes inside. I called her on it. Little bitch. “C’est la mienne. Tu t’apportes chez moi?” The poorly spoken French equivalent of “your place or mine?” She laughed and gestured for me to follow.
We made out in the middle of Rue Saint-Denis and took the metro to her shitty apartment in the 10th, above an Indian restaurant and tabac. Funny, I pegged her for a Marais girl, but I guess the cost of living exceeds even the most audacious dreams of pixie-cut hoodlumettes. She watched me like a hawk as I looked around, daring me to lay a finger on her stained coffee maker and ratty sweatshirt. We kissed on her bed, pilled and dotted with crumbs, but warm from the heat of the sun. She pecked like a bird, her lips cool and chapped, my hands roving listlessly. Crappy kisser, typically selfish in the sack. I am not yet accustomed to this gear of motion, I told myself. I am getting my feet wet.
I fingered her. She came in moments, groaning like a porn star, and for a moment, I thought she was faking it until I realized she’d actually orgasmed, her clitoris slippery between my fingers like a pearl. She didn’t want me to lick it and gave me no inclination to stay or reciprocate. I wiped my fingers off on a dishtowel and waved goodbye. She watched me from her window like a housecat, her eyes glinting in the sun as I descended the stairs to the train. The housecat, the hoodlum one and the same in her vulpine features.