Jacob woke the next morning with a jolt, his room still smelling faintly of Sabrina - something like garlic, sweat, and something else primal he couldn't shake. He realized she didn't have
his
number. How could she reach him? How could he reach her? He'd seen her in the background of someone else's Instagram story once, months ago, raving about a cheese biggie deluxe pizza with triple garlic, onion, and ghost peppers. She'd been laughing, her messy hair catching the light, and he'd thought it was the most interesting, brave, creative thing - her originality shining through the Midwest's beige sameness as she ate something so rejective of what society told them to eat. He admired her, quietly, from his lonely corner. Now, he had an idea:
He ordered the pizza from that local joint from her post, using online ordering, scribbling a note on the delivery instructions:
"Sabrina: I remembered you liked this. I think it's so cool and interesting and cute how brave and creative and original you are. I really admire you. -Jacob."
The receipt carried his words when Penny, the pizza girl, knocked on Sabrina's door that evening. Penny - a wiry sophomore with a nose ring - read it aloud, her voice cracking with laughter that morphed into sobs. "Oh my God, this is adorable," she choked out, wiping her eyes. "No boy's ever said that to me. Probably never will."
Sabrina, still in bed, her tank top rumpled and her hair a tangled nest, opened the door and blinked at the stranger. Penny thrust the pizza into her hands, still crying, and Sabrina - moved by the rawness - hugged her. They stood there, two lonely girls clinging to a fleeting connection, until Penny pulled away, sniffling, and left. Alone again, Sabrina devoured the entire pizza, a new record. She hadn't eaten much in two days, and the fiery, garlicky mess tasted like salvation. She washed her sleep pills down with vodka her roommate had brought home after a "
date
" with an older man, maybe a senior, maybe an adult, the burn mingling with the ghost peppers in her throat.
That night, Jacob thought he'd outsmarted her sexsomnia. He noticed she wasn't herself and had no idea what was happening when she, uhh,
initiated
. So he'd outsmart the her that wasn't her. He piled blankets outside his door, a makeshift barricade to muffle her inevitable banging. But around 2 a.m., a drunk, sleepwalking Sabrina staggered down the hall, her breath a potent mix of garlic, onion, and liquor. She kicked at his door, the sound dulled by the layers, not loud enough to rouse him fully. He scoffed, wishing he'd just let her in, but that wouldn't be fair to the girl he liked. Then he heard it --
moans, wet and desperate, accompanied by a rhythmic schlick schlick schlick
. Peering through the peephole, he saw her leaning against her door, her hand buried between her thighs, masturbating with abandon, her voice growing louder, echoing in the empty hall.
Jacob squeezed his eyes shut, whispering,
