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I almost smile.

Almost.

Me: Hands on your lap.

Maggie: They are.

The image comes too easily. Her at the desk. Tired. Warm. Trying to joke around the fact that she listened.

I type slower.

Me: Now breathe.

She answers quickly.

Maggie: Oh, I hate you a little.

Me: No, you don’t.

Maggie: No.

Maggie: I don’t.

My hand closes around the edge of the counter again. The admission is small. Still, enough.

I think about telling her to touch herself.

Maggie: I should be embarrassed.

Me: Are you?

Maggie: Not enough.

Me: Good.

Maggie: There it is again.

Me: You like it.

A longer pause.

Then: That is a very confident thing to say to a stranger.

Me: Am I wrong?

The screen stays still.

Five seconds. Ten.

Then: No.

I picture her at the desk, knees drawn apart under it, notes open and useless in front of her. Pen abandoned. Phone in one hand. The other slipping under fabric because I told her to put it there.

I imagine telling her to use two fingers. Slowly.

Not because she’s impatient. Because I am.

I imagine making her keep the phone in her hand while she does it. Making her answer me. Making her tell me when she’s wet. Making her stop before she comes.