My skirt lies at your feet, a feeble shrine to the words hanging thick between us. You look past me, out the window at the blue sky. I watch the flicker of your pupils as you track the clouds.
You whisper the lie again. “I don’t want you.”
I tug at the hem of my shirt, a cage of cotton and polyester, scrunching the front into a knot above my pubic line. You squint in resistance, refusing to be distracted by the movement of flesh and fabric.
“Closer now,” I whisper to the freckles on your nose. You move closer, careful not to look, to touch. Careful not to break the rules.
“Look at my face.”
You look, eyes snapping to mine at the command.
“Sit.” You sit, naked and cross-legged on the floor. You stare up past my bare lower half, maintaining eye contact. Maintaining play.
“Say it again.”
“I don’t want you.” A lick of your lips betrays the lie. The lie that is crucial to the game. You resist the temptation to peek below my naked waist.