Samantha Levy
You and I first slept together in October, but we had been friends and colleagues for three years before.
After dipping me, after asking me whether I had ever danced the blues, after arguing over the best way to keep the fire going, after trading tales of past relationships over dinner, after squeezing in that hike before sundown—belting John Prine, after chugging two beers, after giggling while opening drawers in the cabin when we checked in, after “liking” the photo you sent while waiting in line to enter the park, after wondering whether you’d even show up . . . you kissed me.
You were ravenous.
I couldn’t stop thinking about how, by our next work meeting, you’d know how my pussy smells.
The morning after, we followed the short trail to the overlook and stared out over the vast expanse of the valley before us. We sat in silence, cutting a Honeycrisp apple with a camping knife and smearing it with peanut butter from the jar.
Two months after, outside our friends’ apartment, you pulled me aside and pushed me against the wall of the alley. I came, pants on—your hand deep inside them. I could see your breath when you said, I want to take you home, tie you up, and fuck you. Sorry, I said. I can’t tonight.
That spring, after a midday Hill meeting, I invited you over for a drink. We popped our beers, locked eyes, took a sip, set the cans on the table, and silently came together. Halfway through, you pulled away. Sorry . . . I’m distracted—I need to call a reporter back. I shrugged. You know, we don’t have to sleep together. You smiled. I appreciate you saying that.
Years later, I’m standing in Riverside Park after a fresh snow, shivering, your voice vibrating in my earbuds. You don’t listen. You’re frustrating to work with. I no longer trust you.
After holding me as I cried, after telling me you can’t stop hearing my breath in your ear, after cooking me dinners, after tying me up, after singing in each other’s faces, after beating you by a mile in a ski race, after shooting countless games of pool, after playing it too cool, after saying you’ll visit and canceling last minute, after making promises neither of us would keep—
I realized now, there would only be before.
Samantha Levy lives in NYC with her sweet dog, Ash. By day, she advocates for farmland conservation and climate policy in DC and at state capitols across the country. By night she sheds her suit and sings, plays piano, writes, and tap dances her way to life. She is training to become a mediator to help people in her community work through conflict. Although she writes avidly, especially to persuade people to do things for farmers and the environment, this is her first published piece in a literary magazine!
Photo by Luba Ertel on Unsplash