We meet on a turn-out lane like we always do. There’s a hill that slopes down from the road into a poppy field. It’s all just green, overgrown grass right now, but in spring I’ll photograph couples here in this field that will become a sea of red. I park behind you, flash my headlights, our signal, and wait for you to get into my car. The routine’s always the same: make out, hand job, ten-minute sex. This was more fun when we were stupid teenagers. The sneaking around felt less risky. You’d get that cheater-high, and I’d think you actually liked me. Now I just come back for information. We talk for hours after sex, about your girlfriend, mostly. I ask questions, and you answer them. I knew her before you knew her, but you don’t know that yet. She and I were roommates in college. We’d drink on empty stomachs, share secrets, kiss in the dark. Then she moved out, and I thought that was it. Until you texted me, and we fucked, and you said her name. That’s called fate.

The first time I asked you about her, you only said, she’s nice, but your eyes said more, and because of that, I almost deleted your phone number. We both know she is more than nice. And we’re not. Because we never deviate. Except for tonight. Instead of getting in my car, you walk around to my window and say, “I want to try something different.”

“Different how?”

“I want to try it outside.”

“No,” I say, almost laughing. “Somebody might see.”

“So?” You say this as if being caught having sex with me wouldn’t ruin your life. “No one’s going to see.”  

“I don’t know.”

“I do,” you say, walking to the front of my car.

I sit for a moment, watching you watch me. I want the moon to go dark. All the stars to go dead. Total blackout. I turn on my brights so you can’t see me. I think about backing away and leaving you. Ending this. I wouldn’t have to be your “friend with benefits” anymore. Not even your friend either. I could kill this just by driving away. I could roll all my windows down, let the night air purge you from the interior of my car. I could hold my hand out the window, fingers spread wide, and let it purge you from me.

But then I remember your girlfriend, and the way you smell like her—warm vanilla—and I want to breathe you in. 

“Come on,” you mouth to me, and I do.

We jump the guardrails and walk into the poppy field. Most of the flowers are still shut tight in green bulbs like a cyclops’s eye. There are pockets of blooms, though. Hard to see in the dark, with their petals closed, but as we move farther in, I sometimes catch a glimpse of red and know that soon, this whole field will wake up. The turn-out will become a tourist attraction, and I’ll take photos of people in their different seasons—proposals, engagements, weddings, baby announcements. I wonder if you’ll propose here, and if you’ll book me. I wonder if your girlfriend will hug me the way she used to, and if I’ll be pulled to her like a tide. Will you try and catch secret glances with me as I move your girlfriend in and out of frame? You’ll get down on one knee in this field where we had sex, now red everywhere, and I’ll watch your girlfriend, capturing the shape of her lips as she says, yes!, and later that night, maybe I’ll draft a text message with some sort of confession, staring at her photos like I’ve done so many times. Maybe you’ll text me to meet up, and I’ll trace my fingers across your fiancée’s cupid’s bow, envisioning her face framed by thousands of poppies, and for the first time, maybe I’ll say no.   

“Are we far enough yet?” I ask.

You look toward the road. A car drives by. Its headlights are thin and yellow. “I guess so,” you say. 

We lie in the poppies, making a bed of them. We go slow. You kiss me as if you’re sinking, and if I didn’t already know you, I would have thought that you really wanted me. I close my eyes and pretend I see us from above. I pretend the field is all red. 

“Will you?” I ask. It’s so dark that we can’t see each other anymore, and I’m not sure if you know what I’m asking. This is the first time I’ve asked you to go down on me, and I wonder if this is the difference you were looking for tonight. If you’d grown bored of me, too.

I feel you nod in response, and you move down my body. I bet your girlfriend has asked the same question, probably in the same dizzy whisper. The one that I remember. As you place your face between my legs and move your tongue, I realize you don’t know what you’re doing.

“Up,” I say. “Left more.” I hold your hair and pull a little to let you know when it feels good. I stare up into the night. The stars out here are brighter than I’ve ever seen. All clear, all scattered. They tell me that this will be our last time together. When you go home, your girlfriend will know you’ve been with someone else. She’ll recognize me in this touch. The new way you’ve learned to get her off. There will be no more pretending. I picture her face again and imagine what she’ll sound like. I lean my head back and close my eyes, feel the poppies and her against me.