In this space, standing means his body is flush against mine from knee to chest. His belt buckle digs into my bare hip. His hands are on the wall behind my head again, and his face is close enough that when he exhales, I breathe it in.
There isn’t much room, but I do it anyway, shuffling in the narrow space and grinding against him in the process, until my chest is pressed against the back panel and my cheek rests against the wood. Behind me, I hear his belt, then the slide of a zipper, and then his hand is on the back of my neck, firm, holding me in place.
“Hands on the wall,” he instructs. “Flat.”
I press both palms against the panel. The wood is worn smooth by decades of hands doing exactly this—pressing flat, gripping, bracing for whatever comes next. Same posture. Very different co
