I spoke in a paranoid manner, like someone dealing coke on a playground.

“She always wears the same pants–high-waisted, the color of mustard,” I explained.

K furrowed his forehead. “So what?”

He didn’t get it. She and I had been out six times, and while she was attractive, her sartorial choices revolved around that high-waisted, mustard-colored pair of pants.

K continued after an uncomfortable pause: “When are you seeing her next?” 

“Tonight. She’s coming over for dinner.”

……….

I made her pasta and got her drunk. We groped at each other–unhooking, unzipping.

I reached for the button on her pants.

“Wait,” she gasped, clutching my hand, “we should stop.”

……….

“I’m ready” read the email. Twenty years had passed. But I knew what it meant. 

She still lived at the same place. She seemed too old–a disease, she would explain later in the bedroom. She still had on the same pants. They were faded and badly worn in the knees.

“Fuck me,” she hissed. I grabbed her by the waist and yanked her pants to the ground. Her torso toppled from her hips with a thud. “Thank you,” she said before dying.

“For what,” I wondered. I hadn’t fucked her yet.