Standard Steaming Sexual Tension

That afternoon, Moss walked Imogene home again. Their conversation bounced all over, and they never seemed to run out of things to talk about—whether it be fanfiction or Daredevil or the latest Apollo 11 conspiracy. At one point, they even spoke about Moss's mum, which somehow morphed into an argument over the best way to make snickerdoodles.

Soon they were at Imogene's doorstep. Moss had been meaning to depart there, but somehow he ended up following through the hallway, up the stairs, and to her apartment door, jabbering all the way.

"No, no, no!" said Moss. "They're much better crunchy, because then they aren't so chewy and rich!"

"Soft and chewy is how it's meant to be!" Imogene insisted. "That's what makes them SNICKERDOODLES!"

Moss grinned impossibly wide and shook his head. "How long have we been arguing about this?"

"I don't know. Fifteen minutes?"

He rolled his head back with laughter. "Fifteen minutes! Over ruddy snickerdoodles!"

"Hey, would you like to come in? I can give you that Judge Dredd comic back, since I finished it."

"Oh, did you like it?"

"I loved it!" She fumbled with her keys excitedly. "I loved how violent it was, and all the cool gadgets, and the characters—aw, man, everything about it was just so cool!"

She opened the door and stepped inside. Moss followed. Her apartment was a complete mess, buried beneath piles of fashionable clothes and empty whiskey bottles. Moss instantly recoiled at the putrid smell.

"Ugh," he winced. "What is that?"

"Oh, uh..." Imogene frowned. "That's just the, uh...natural odor of the place. I think Ginger may have left some food out a long time ago, because it's been getting progressively worse over the past few days."

"That's just rancid."

"Yeah, I probably should have cleaned before inviting you in. Too late now, I guess." She threw her yellow backpack on a chair and called, "Hey, Ginge? Are you home?" There wasn't a response. "That's funny. I wonder where she is."

"She might not be home from work. It's not that late."

Imogene rolled her eyes. "Ginger doesn't work."

Just then, Ginger herself emerged from the bathroom looking cleaner than ever. She was wearing a tight-fitting strapless cocktail dress, stiletto heels, and an unnecessary amount of makeup—her old self again. Sad Ginger had turned back into the much more tolerable—but no less high-maintenance—Party Ginger.

"Oh, hey, Genie," she said nonchalantly. "Who's your boyfriend?"

Imogene turned red. "Uh, this is my work friend, Moss."

"Hello!" he said gaily. "I've heard a lot about you and your womanly moods."

Ginger raised her eyebrows. "I'm going out with some friends for a drink and a good shag. I don't care if you two have sex just as long as it's not in my bed—or on the couch. There's a crapload of vodka in the cupboard if you want some and it's probably best if you just, you know, chug the whole thing so I don't get hammered twice in a row when I come home. Cause you know the bottle and I are like oppositely-poled magnets. Did I say 'when' I come home? I meant 'if' I come home. And if I'm not back in a week make sure to call the police—you never know when a guy might want an impromptu trip to the Bahamas but also, you know, kidnappers exist so you can never be too sure."

She put on her fur coat and swung her purse over one shoulder as Imogene looked on with wide eyes. "Bye now."

She slammed the door behind her, leaving Imogene and Moss in the putrefying apartment.

"Well," said Imogene. "You've met my roommate."

"Yes," he replied. "She seems very nice."

They averted each other's eyes in silence, until Imogene said, "You can take your coat off if you'd like to stay awhile."

"I would like that, actually. Although it might be a good idea to figure out what is causing that terrible stench."

"You're right."

"It smells like..." Moss sniffed. "Rotting seafood. Not just any rotting seafood...crab."

He went across the room, to the kitchen, using his nose as a guide. He opened up the refrigerator, then the freezer, and pulled out a package of something.

"Here it is," he said. "Just what I thought. Rotten crab meat, expired a month ago. Just terrible considering crab usually only keeps about three to five days in the refrigerator."

"Oh my God," Imogene churned, reaching for it. "Here, I'll take that out to the garbage. Do you think you could do me a favor and sniff out some air freshener or something?"

"I'd gladly oblige."

Imogene departed. Moss removed his coat, placing it on a chair with his little orange backpack, and searched for some Febreze to remove the remaining smell. All he could find was Ginger's bottle of Chanel No. 5, which he decided was the next best thing and sprayed all over the kitchen. He placed the bottle back where he'd found it—on the edge of the toilet seat—and hoped it wouldn't topple in. Imogene's flat was proving to be a very strange place indeed, especially since he'd expected it to be cleaner, and covered ceiling-to-floor in movie posters, instead of this once-stylish but now garbage-filled hellhole.

Imogene returned from outside and was instantly taken aback. "Wow! It smells lovely in here!"

Moss bowed with gratitude. "It's the work of an odor master."

"It's like your superpower or something."

He beamed and straightened his tie.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked him.

"Yes, please," he said. "Could I have a White Russian?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'chai tea', but you know what?" Imogene opened a cupboard and pulled out a gleaming glass bottle. "Now that you mention it, vodka sounds nice."

He scoffed. "I've never had vodka straight."

"I've never had vodka anything. But after today's overwhelming and unexpected familial betrayal, I think I deserve a little taste."

She grabbed two giant whiskey glasses and filled them to the brim.

"Are you sure this is how it works?" Moss asked. "I thought vodka came in the smaller glasses."

"I really have no idea. You'd have to ask the 'drunks and junkies.'" Imogene took a giant swig and immediately keeled over coughing. "Oh my God! It burns!"

Moss took a sip and winced. "You're right."

"Why did I do that?"

"Youthful rebellion?" He took another sip. "That's funny. It tastes like bread."

"It tastes like nail polish remover!"

"You don't have to drink it if you don't—" He watched her take another swig. "Oh."

"I can already feel myself getting drunk. Is that bad?"

"I thought you were legally allowed to drink at twenty-one in America."

"Yeah, in America, but not at my house." She took another gulp and shook her head. "God I hate my dad right now. Want to watch a movie?"

"Why not?"

"I think Ginger has Pulp Fiction."

"One of Roy's favorites. Nothing like brutal violence to channel your inner rage with society, he says. I think he uses Tarantino films as a form of therapy. I suppose using Samuel L. Jackson as an audience surrogate is, in a way, healthier than actual violence, but there's something about that philosophy that rubs me the wrong way sometimes."

Imogene shuffled through Ginger's things, already feeling a bit of a buzz—although maybe that was just her mind playing tricks on her. She found Pulp Fiction and slid it into Ginger's crusty DVD player, throwing bean bags, teddy bears, and beer cans off the couch so that she could sit next to Moss.

"This is a much nicer flat than Roy's," Moss pointed out. "His has the toilet in the corner, next to the television." He took another gulp of vodka. "This may not be as good as a White Russian, but I daresay I definitely am feeling the speed of the train to Hammersville."

Imogene frowned. "Can you feel speed?"

"You mean methamphetamine? Well, it's a solid object, so you can hold it between your fingers—"

"No, I mean...velocity."

"They're not the same, Imogene. Velocity is speed with direction. Speed is just...speed. But in answer to your question, one can definitely feel abrupt increases and decreases in speed, such as slamming down on the brakes—"

"I feel like that's not speed...that's inertia..."

"Yes, the resistance to change in motion..."

He trailed off, but he didn't stop talking. He talked all through the movie, and she mumbled along with him as her deteriorating brain cells tried to follow his train of thought. As he grew more intoxicated, the gears in his brain kept scraping together and whizzing along, churning out incoherent physics philosophies and political monologues. Imogene's brain seemed to slow down instead of keep going, and it felt like she was falling asleep. Everything began to blur together—the Royale with Cheese, the amount of times she refilled their glasses, the way she was starting to stumble a bit when she walked, what they drank after they finished the vodka, the explosions of blood and bodily fluids on the screen. Moss was paying attention to all of it and none of it at once.

"I want to cut my bangs like Mia Wallace," Imogene slurred.

"You already have very nice bangs," he said eloquently.

"You have nice bangs, too," she giggled. "Oh, wait. You don't have bangs. You have your little side-part thingy."

"Please don't touch it. You're drunk! You'll mess it up!"

"Don't yell at me!"

"I apologize."

"Don't apologize."

"What am I supposed to do then?"

"I don't know! Not that!"

Her eyes were on the screen, but his were taking in the way its light fell upon her face. Then she turned to meet his gaze and he abruptly glanced away.

"Perhaps I should be going," he droned. "My mum will be so worried. If she finds out I got drunk, she'll take away my Nintendo."

"No!" Imogene whined.

She leaned over and fell onto his chest, wrapping her arm across his stomach. An instant burst of euphoria shot through Moss, so intense he was afraid he might throw up. He squirmed at the unexpectedness of her touch, but her grip grew tighter around his side. She was so warm, and she seemed to melt into him somehow as she grew more comfortable.

"Why are you so comfy?" she mumbled.

"Lack of muscle, I would presume. I'm big and bony like a pillow."

"I like that about you. You're lanky."

"Mm..."

Moss leaned his head against hers. Her hair was wiry and smelled of green apples. He was sure he was about to fall asleep in the bliss.

"This movie is really good until you get to the rape scene," she chattered. "Do you want me to skip the rape scene?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm not really watching anyway."

"Mm...me neither." She snuggled into him more. "This is so nice."

"Yes, it's quite pleasant."

"Why don't we do this more often?"

"I'm not sure. I suppose it's strangely intimate considering we've only known each other a few weeks."

They sat in silence for a few moments. He was sure she was asleep, but then she lifted her chin so that her brown eyes were in his. Her face was so close, and their noses were almost touching.

"You know what, Moss?" she murmured. "You're really cute."

Her words hung in the air like smoke, as everything within Moss burst into flames. When she continued, he found himself watching all the parts of her face as she talked—her eyebrows raising and contorting, her tongue running over her bottom lip, her nose scrunching up when she sniffled.

"You know," she continued. "I've had, like, this huge crush on you ever since I came here. You're, like, mega cool. And you're the sweetest guy I've met in a long time. A lot of times I meet guys and their eyes just kinda pass over me, you know? Like they're thinking, nah, not this weirdo, I can do better. But you always look at me like you care about what I'm saying. And that's really sweet, because not a lot of people in general pay attention to me. And maybe it sounds kinda selfish but it's not just that. You're funny and you're quirky and you're nice, and I like your nasally voice and your weird dress sense and your funny ties..."

She trailed off and nestled into his shoulder. "I like you, Moss."

He stared at her, still examining her face, his lanky arms still pulling her in close. His heart was thumping at a thousand miles a minute, but his lips were tight.

"Would I be going out on a limb if I kissed you?" he said.

Imogene smiled dazedly. "I don't know. Want to find out?"

The universe was screaming. Moss leaned over the tiny space between them and pressed his lips to hers. He held them there, gently, for a minute, and then pulled away.

"You can do a little more than that," she giggled. "If you're gonna kiss me, make it—"

He cut her off, and it took her a minute to realize they were kissing again. She reached up and yanked him closer, and he cradled the side of her cheek with one hand. Her mouth was sloppy and all over, and it was difficult for Moss to follow her lead, but he was too caught up in the moment to care much.

Imogene sat up and climbed into his lap, jabbing him in the stomach with her knee. Moss cried out, "Ow!"

"Oops," she giggled. "Sorry. This is my first time making out with someone since middle school. I mean...elementary school. I mean college."

Moss stared up at her as she stroked his cheek with her fingertips. "In England, we tend to use the term 'snogging.'"

She raised her eyebrows as her head lolled to the side. "You know, normally I would be all mean and nasty and keep it PG, but I think it's about time I saw an R-rated movie in theatres. I'm in the mood for a little Fifty Shades action." Her hand ran down the front of his button-down shirt. "If you know what I mean."

Moss tore off his glasses and narrowed his eyes steamily. "You'd better secure your popcorn, 'cause we're shooting straight through the screen."

She laughed and kissed him again, then slid off his lap and tugged him upwards by his tie. They didn't stop kissing even after they went inside her room and shut the door.