I practically sprint the distance from the subway stop to my apartment building, and hop over three steps at a time to the second floor. I wish I had her number, so I could text her. But somehow, she tasted my vagina but it never occurred to either of us to exchange phone numbers.
I dash to my computer, tap my foot as it takes forever to boot, and email her at the same address she uses to send out class announcements. I hope she checks it once in a while.
Fighting the urge to uselessly refresh the page, I pace the loft, kick a bag of recycling I never got around to carrying to the bin downstairs.
Seconds later, my computer pings. I spin around and dart over: the top message is from Elizabeth, and it's curt.
Call me. And below it, a number. My heart leaps and I fumble with my phone, screwing up the number three times until I get it right.
She answers on the first ring. "Alaska."
"Yeah. I—back at the lab, Audrey, she—"
