Selina lowers herself onto Ben. The whole breadth of him, all tension, all knotted discomfiture; forget muscles; forget backbones.
"Whoa, hey." She speaks her words into the line of his jaw, her breath hot with something worse than hate. "Uh."
"No." He'd swear in front of a jury that he only places his palms on her thighs to urge her off. He'd swear up and down that he tries to be gentle, that he says, "We’re not doing this. You're angry."
He'd leave out the part where he says, "and I'd rather pay for that properly."
And the part where Ben’s eyes wander down his own flanks, flanked by Selina's thighs. And the part where he pushed because she pulled.
It is like a dance. A comic ballet. Ben rises; Selina twists around him; he balances her on cushioned knees, pressing her spine against the booth-back, prying off one of her thighs with the broad of his hand. She drops one arm to balance herself on him.
"I don't see what—" she's surprisingly strong "—you're trying to prove."
Her eyes flash; something in Ben flashes in response. This oaf, this tree of a man, would deny that when she sinks her nails into the flesh under his collar, he kisses her.
There are several words that might describe the kiss. Liquor and cherries. Abrupt, stupid and wrong, and tender and hopeful—and so organic that it seems to repel them naturally. When she slips away, and he stumbles back, Ben falters over the thought—
He’s broken something, hasn't he? The mask he’s worn so poorly slips and the lonely boy he has always been peeks through. The lonely boy whose relationships had only been conditional. Or transactional.
"Sorry." This Ben smooths out his shirt, the kink in his hair and brow, and the lump in his throat. This Ben places a palm on the door. "I'm sorry I kissed you. Sorry for wasting your time."
