I say, and I know I sound bossy. I know I’m using the same low voice that I would use to tell a woman to open her legs for my mouth. I know it and I don’t care. I don’t think I can handle living with last night in my mind without some kind of closure; I don’t think I can look at her for another second and not kiss her—I can’t listen to another word without needing her to say my name over and over again. Something has to shift, something has to stop this terrible twist she’s got going in my chest, and this is the only thing I can think of.
