We don’t speak. We don’t have to. My hands find the base of his skull and I pull on the hair there, soft and then harder, until his mouth opens slightly. Standing on my tiptoes, I press my lips to his, our mouths touching, so soft. Tears prick at my eyes when he doesn’t give me one inch, not with his tongue or with a move to pull me close. I’m accosting him in front of the bathroom line like a crazed fan and— I don’t care. God…this.
