Page 167 of Sexting the Pakhan

She doesn’t know I know.

She doesn’t know the man on her couch is the same man she has been texting all these years.

I should tell her. I know that.

Instead, I reach for my phone.

I send her a message from the number she knows:Are you alone?

At the table, her phone lights up.

She glances at it.

Her whole body changes. Not much. Enough.

She looks toward the hallway first, checking for the girls. Then toward me.

I keep my eyes half-closed.

She picks up the phone, responds:Not a good time.

I type back:That usually means it is.

Her jaw tightens.

She looks at me again.

I don’t move.

She sends:I’m working.

Me:I know. That’s why I’m imagining you at your table, trying to behave.

Her fingers pause. Her cheeks color.

I should stop.

I don’t.

Me:I’m imagining your thighs pressed together under the table. Your hand pretending to fix your dress. Your breath changing because you’re thinking about all the things you shouldn’t want.

She shifts in her chair.

Slowly. Like she hates herself for reacting.

My body tightens.

She sends:You don’t know what I’m doing.

Me:I know what you do when you want to be touched.

She swallows.

Her hand drops from the table to her lap.

My mouth goes dry.

Me:Slide your hand under your waistband.