You've scarcely gotten in from the cold and M.'s already taking off your coat, kissing your neck.

The two of you are fumbling up the creaky stairs to M.'s apartment on the third floor—you can hear a sitcom laugh track from inside one of the other apartments. M.'s hands are under your sweater; M.'s fingers are artfully grazing, touching, pinching. You're making some kind of noise—you wonder if it's embarrassing.

The lights in the hallway are dim and fluorescent. The paint is peeling off in sections. You wonder if M. complains to the landlord, or even cares. You realize you don't know M. at all.

You're at the door now. M. kisses your mouth feverishly. Your whole body floods with warmth. Molten amber. Your knees are weak, useless. M. pushes you firmly against the door—you hear the jingle of keys and the door opens into unexplored territory—a living room.

Later, when you think about this night, you'll find that there are several key details missing. You can only see the outline of what is happening. White walls. No artwork. A dark bluish, maybe purple rug. You wouldn't know where M.'s bedroom is, because you are already making use of the couch. You're locked in embrace, two caterpillars in a singular cocoon.

But you have unexpected company.

Like a poltergeist, C. has entered the room and joined you. C's beautiful, laughing face is all you can think of. Bile rises in your throat. Violation.