Glass Dildo in a Toronto Condo at Dawn

The radiator ticked in the corner — not steadily, but in clusters, three or four clicks and then silence, then three or four more, like something trying to find a rhythm. It was the first sound she had registered after the cab pulled away at four-fifty. She had lain still for an hour after that, not sleeping, just listening to the building settle around her and the January cold pressing against the glass of the window above the headboard.

She got up at six. Not because she had decided anything. Because her body had.

The box was on the closet shelf where she had put it three weeks ago, still sealed. She had ordered it on a Tuesday afternoon, chosen it with the same attention she brought to anything she researched properly — reading the specifications twice, noting the weight listed in grams, the diameter at the widest point, the borosilicate glass that would hold temperature the way no other material would. She had not opened it when it arrived. She wasn't sure why. She told herself she was waiting for the right time. What she meant was: she was waiting to want it more than she was afraid of how much she already did.

Now she sat on the edge of the bed with the box open on her lap. The sleep shirt she'd worn for three days hung off one shoulder, the fabric thin enough that the cold from the window had already reached her arms. She lifted the dildo out with both hands.

It was heavier than she expected. Not heavy — weighted. There was a difference. She turned it once, watching the pre-dawn grey catch along its surface, and then she closed both palms around it and held it.

Her thighs were pressed together, the shirt pooled between them. She was aware of the specific pressure of that — the cotton held there by the fact of her knees not parting, by her not having decided yet. She focused on her hands. The glass was cool against her left palm and cooler still against her right, and she held it and waited, measuring the seconds it took to begin drawing warmth from her.

She noticed that she had stopped breathing for a moment. Then she let the breath out, longer than the one before it had been, through her nose, slow.

The glass was warming. Not warm yet — approaching it. She turned it again between her palms, slow and deliberate, and felt the faint resistance of the ridged base against the heel of her right hand. Her left thumb traced the smooth curve of the shaft once, gathering information.

She was being precise about this. She had decided to be precise. To notice everything in sequence. To not rush past the sensation in the hurry to reach the next one.

Her knees shifted — not apart, just a small adjustment, the fabric pulling taut across her thighs for a moment before going slack. She felt that in the crease where her hip met her thigh, a warmth that had nothing to do with the radiator.

She held the glass in both hands and did not move yet. The radiator ticked its uneven rhythm into the silence, and she sat with the weight of it across her palms, and waited one more breath for it to be ready.