Jon, continued

A love affair during work is a fantasy most girls dream about. Of course, this effect was somewhat dampened by the elementary-aged children pulling at my legs, screaming, crying, snot running out of their noses. I'd be watching a child ravaging his nose for a booger, or sticking his hands down his pants, or wiping mulch from a scrape when Jon would approach me from behind, whispering words in my ear like,
"Sloppy cunt" and "Whore". He had discovered my weaknesses early, knew how to make me squirm, watched me as I ran across the field, entered the pool.
His lips were always wet, his face always a little sweaty, or maybe greasy, with a permanent red tinge that wasn't caused by the heat. He'd pull me in the hallway for a kiss, quick and sloppy. I'd have to wipe my mouth afterward, as soon as he looked away.
It wasn't that I was disgusted by him. In fact, I was still enraptured at the thought of an older man with all his interest on me. It made me feel, in a way, distinguished, privileged, worth something. In that way he had me caught in a vice grip, which I couldn't wiggle out of even if I tried.
My older sister worked with us. I could feel her eyes on me whenever Jon and I were together, saw her disapproving frown. "He's too old," she would say, as she drove us home. "You better not be dating him."
"I'm not." I was frustrated by her prying and my words were sharp.
And we weren't dating, really. I'd go to his house sometimes, mainly in groups, and he would take me to his room and say, "I would love to take you out," and "I would love to be your boyfriend." I would always avoid the subject, for reasons I still have yet to grasp. He didn't press the issue, instead told me about himself, his life, his troubles, his torments. I shared some of myself as well, but remained guarded. Maybe it was that we were coworkers. Maybe it was my sister's words. Maybe I had known, somehow, of his insincerity, lurking just behind his smile like a crocodile in muddy water.
There was a girl with him, one time. He ignored me, focused his attention on her, a hand on her knee, his mouth near her hair. I grew furious, anxious, my skin itching, my stomach rolling over itself. My nails tore at my skin, but the irritation didn't cease. My ears were buzzing.
"She's just like a sister to me," he assured me, holding my hand. In the fingers of his other hand was a cigarette. I remembered him saying that he didn't smoke.
It was the next week that I heard him fucking her in the next room over. She was a screamer; his bed squeaked. I heard the alternating thrusts and moans. There was music in the background- it sounded Asian, almost like a soundtrack.
I remembered him saying that he was a virgin.
"Take me home," I said to Ralph, wanting to vomit.
I felt like a whore.