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She’s fascinated by his ability to read the same information, packaged differently, incestgalleries over and over again. He runs incestgalleries the fingers of his right hand between her legs. “How’s your crotch feeling?” The fingers on his left hand hold his book, his flashlight propped in the crook of his neck. “Fine,” she lies. The pink seat that’s been jammed between her thighs for incestgalleries days was designed for the crotch of a twelve-year-old girl whose biking needs involve riding down the block to sleepover parties in style. “You can borrow a pair of my shorts, you know.” Before they left, he’d tried to get her to buy those heinous shorts with the padding. I’ll be fine, she told him. I don’t have balls. Remember? And she wanted to add, How much biking are we really going to do, anyhow? She actually thought he realized, after eight months of dating, that she wasn’t the biking type.
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