Rabbit Vibrator in a Brooklyn Apartment, Mid-January

The pipes clanged twice, then went quiet, then clanged again — the building's old radiators doing their stuttering work against the January cold outside. She had learned the rhythm of them in six weeks. She had learned a lot of small things, in six weeks.

The box sat on the bed beside her. Pale pink cardboard, the kind of packaging that tries very hard to look tasteful. She had bought it before — before was a word she used now the way other people used a city they'd left — and it had lived in the original shopping bag, inside the closet, inside the old apartment, for almost two years. She had carried it here without opening it, the way you carry certain things you aren't ready for.

She'd read the instructions twice. She didn't know why. The instructions were not complicated.

The t-shirt she was wearing was one of the ones she'd kept — gray, thin from washing, the hem just reaching mid-thigh when she sat cross-legged on the bed the way she was sitting now. The cotton was almost weightless against her skin, and she was aware of that — of the specific lightness of it, the way it lay across both thighs without pressing, without warmth, just resting there like something that had forgotten to commit.

She picked up the vibrator. It was lighter than she expected. The silicone was cool against her palm — not cold exactly, but not her temperature either — and she turned it once in her right hand while her left hand stayed flat against the mattress, fingers spread into the fitted sheet.

Eleven years. She thought it and then set the thought down, the way you set something down when your hands are full.

What she noticed instead: the specific pressure of her own thighs against each other, knees touching, the hem of the shirt just at the edge of where they met. The faint ache that had been living somewhere in her lower stomach for days — weeks, maybe, she had stopped counting — that she had been explaining to herself as stress, as adjustment, as the normal grief of rearranging a life.

It wasn't that.

She turned the base of the vibrator slowly, not switching it on. Just learning the mechanism. Her thumb found the button and stayed there, not pressing.

The moment before.

She exhaled — a breath she hadn't known she was holding, longer going out than it had been coming in, the sound of it surprising her in the quiet room. Her knees were still together. Her left hand was still flat on the sheet. The hem of the shirt lay across her thighs and she was aware, suddenly, of what was under it — not the vibrator, not yet — just herself. The warmth she had apparently been generating this whole time without noticing.

Her thumb rested on the button.

The pipes clanged once, somewhere below her, the sound traveling up through the walls of this apartment that was hers alone, and she let her knees begin, very slowly, to part.