The bathroom at the end of the hall was single-stall and too bright, and he was already inside when I shut the door.
He locked it. Speeches had started. I could hear a microphone, my mother’s name, laughter. Edward Hale had his jacket off the way he took it off to grade, sleeves turned once. He did not kiss me. He looked at the slit, at the shine on my thigh from a dance where I had come on a sentence, and pointed at the sink.
“Hands. Dress up. Still a choice. Stop, and you go clap. Don’t, and I finish the office. You don’t get to come again until I say. You already spent one on the floor.”
“Don’t stop.”
I put my hands on the porcelain. He dragged the pale dress to my waist and hooked the panties aside. They were ruined, soaked through from the song. Two fingers tested me, slid in easy
