Part 2
Work was a bruise. Every chair felt like it had a ridge carved to remind me I was awake, and the fluorescent lights hummed in rhythm with the voice in my skull. He didn’t shut up. He didn’t need to. He had a front-row seat to every twitch, every little betrayal my body made.
“Move your leg,” he said once, as if he were bored. “People will notice.”
I clenched, shifted, prayed for an emergency email to pull me out of the room. Nothing came. My c**k throbbed against denim like it had a pulse of its own. When someone bumped my elbow, something hot slid through me—jealousy? need?—and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making noise.
At noon the voice nudged practical. “Go to the bathroom,” he said.
I told myself I was going to the bathroom to puke, or to call my mother
