She Poured Out Her Heart by Jean Thompson

rubbing, stroking, licking.
    â€œJust relax,” he murmured.
    She was not relaxed. She was waiting for it to be over. Even though she wanted all the kissing and holding and lying in bed next to him. She liked watching and touching his body, which was slim and compact and not so large as to make her feel overwhelmed. She was OK with all that. The rest of it she was accustomed to go along with, which was all right because it usually didn’t last that long.
    He was still diligently working away at her. “How’s that?”
    â€œIt’s fine,” Jane said, because it wasn’t
not
fine. But if there was some goal involved, she was falling short of it. She put her hand on top of his, stopping him. “I think I need a break.”
    He did stop then, and folded his hand over hers. “You have to tell me what you like.”
    Did she? Was it something else you had to work hard at? They hadn’t known each other very long. She thought she would like talking to him and watching movies on television with him and eating take-out and having someone to tell if she had a bad, or a good, day at work. She would like trying to imagine what he was doing at different times of the day, and dressing up for him when he was coming over. But that was not what he wanted to hear. “I like being close to you,” she began. “I just have trouble being in the moment.”
    â€œAre you . . . afraid or something?”
    What should she say? He was being nice, he
was
nice, and it came to her that he was concerned for her, he was asking if she’d had anything horrible happen to her, like had she been raped or abused. It would be easier if she had been, or maybe she could make up some story. But she couldn’t be that dishonest.
    She said, “I guess it’s mostly nerves.” Which was only a little dishonest.
    â€œI just want to please you,” he whispered. He slid her hand down to his penis, which was poking around again in an amiable way, and at least Jane knew what was expected of her here, and that was all right too, as long as you didn’t have to do it every time.
    This was pretty much how things would continue between them, for some number of years.
    They weren’t able to spend that much time with each other, since Eric’s schedule of clinical rotations was taking up more and more of his hours. He was finishing his last year of medical school and everything depended on applying for residencies and where he got in. But they talked on the phone every day and when they did get a night or a weekend together, it had the feel of a holiday. For Valentine’s Day Eric gave her yellow roses edged with coral. Jane gave him a book of funny cartoons about doctors. She grew more used to the idea that he found something about her desirable. And she was crazy about him. Oh yes.
    Jane involved herself in the intricacies of his application process, asking intelligent questions about residencies and offering encouragement. So much strategy and effort went into trying to get matched with your top school, where you might spend the next five years or more, where your career would be molded and minted. There were personal statements, interviews, performance evaluations; there was an implacable computer process that sorted everyone out. Then, on one dreaded day in March, the word came down and people either rejoiced or wept or gritted their teeth and made the best of it.
    Even buoyant Eric felt the stress of it. “Of course everybody wants Johns Hopkins,” he said gloomily. “And Duke. I shouldn’t even have them on my list.” Jane served as his cheerleader and morale officer, telling him she was sure he’d get one of his top choices, and that wherever he ended up, he’d make it work. She couldn’t tell if Eric believed her or even paid attention. “What?” he’d say, after Jane delivered one of her exhortations. “What?” When he