How Not To Fall by Emily Foster

not at work?”
    â€œI had no patients and no subjects until the afternoon, so I told Diana I was working from home, to avoid distractions.”
    What he’s saying is, Annie, shut the hell up and let me read .
    Between the analgesics and the caffeine, my headache eases, and eventually I say, “I’ve never seen your apartment before. Is this where we’re gonna . . . ?” I gesture to indicate fornication.
    â€œWe’ll talk about it on Friday,” he says, with a repressive eyebrow. “It isn’t certain that we’re ‘gonna’ anything, young Coffey, so don’t start imagining it.”
    â€œDude.” I shake my head—then stop. I feel better, but not that much better. I drink more coffee and then start my sentence over. “Dude, I’ve been imagining ‘gonna’ for, like, two years almost. That ship has sailed.”
    â€œAnnie,” he says in his stern-teacher voice. “We will talk about it. On Friday.” His expression is serious, but he’s got that little bit of pink in his face again.
    â€œWhat, we can’t talk about ‘gonna,’ but it’s okay for me to be here?”
    â€œIt’s not okay for you to be here. You’ll notice I’m trying to boot you out.”
    I give him a wink. “You kinda like it, though, really,” I say, and I purse my lips provocatively.
    â€œAnnie!” he snaps, then he gets up and walks to the kitchen, muttering, “Mother of god. Oh help.”
    I follow him and find him, his hands braced on the edge of the counter, taking deep, slow breaths, and only now does it dawn on me that this really isn’t fun for him at all. He looks like he’s in physical pain. Oh. I was being mean. Shit.
    â€œCharles, I’m sorry,” I say, leaning against the counter next to him. “I won’t do anything anymore. And if you don’t even want to talk on Friday, I’ll understand.”
    â€œFucking ironic process,” he mutters, and he moves—it takes so little, and now his hands are on the counter on either side of me. I’m pinned here.
    â€œThis is insane,” he says mildly.
    I nod seriously. “What’s an ironic process?”
    â€œI’ll send you a reference,” he says, and he relaxes a little, smiling into my eyes, but this close to him, I’m warm and pulsing and dissatisfied. I don’t want to smile. I want him to kiss me.
    â€œLook,” he says, “I think it’s pretty clear that your boss wants to fuck you, and not just in principle, so I’m going to ask for your help. Will you help me?”
    I nod again, still watching his eyes.
    â€œNothing until Friday. No texting, no calling, no e-mail. I’m serious. Nothing more until you’ve turned in your last assignment and you’re definitively off the payroll. No tormenting me. Is that understood, Miss Coffey?” Then his tone changes from stern to pleading. “It’s only two bloody days.”
    I say, “You know, when you put it that way, you only make me want to torment you.”
    â€œAnd that, my siren, is the ironic process.”
    His eyes. Pale blue with gray around the iris. I’ve never looked at his eyes this closely before.
    â€œThen I shouldn’t kiss you right now?” I say.
    He exhales slowly and puts his forehead against mine, eyes closed. His nose bumps the side of my nose. Our glasses tap. “No, Annie,” he whispers. “No.”
    And he kisses me. Full on. Lips, tongue. It’s everything I wanted. I let out a noise, like a squeak or a whimper, and put my arms around his waist. I run my hands over his back, feel the muscles and warmth through his shirt. He grunts and moves his lips across my jaw to my ear and my throat, and now my knees are wobbly. I hold on to him, and his hands—oh, his hands move under the hem of my T-shirt, and as soon as his fingers touch my skin at my waist, we