Chapter Text
redlining
verb
1. The act of taking a red pen to a document to make edits.
2. A method of editing a document in track changes that shows changes, comments, and revisions.
In Illinois, the age of consent is seventeen. Osha Aniseya lost her virginity when she was sixteen. Yep, sixteen. Just barely, too. But don’t feel bad for her, for if she had to rate the experience she’d give it a twenty out of ten. What do they say? “Young, dumb, and full of… cum”? Well, Osha was two of those things. Figuring out how to be the third was a particularly wicked goal of hers. She decided this when Mae told her how she lost her virginity—walked her through every sordid detail, from how penises worked (at first gummy worms, then suddenly like a fifth limb) to how full she felt when one was inside her. And ever since, Osha’s been trying to figure out how to lose her own v-card.
So when she and Mae are home alone for the weekend while their foster parents take the little ones to Six Flags, Osha has a idea.
“I want to borrow your fake ID,” she says to Mae, holding out her hand.
Mae rolls her eyes at her twin. “Oshie, that’s for emergencies only.”
“Please, I know what you and Jecki get up to when you sneak out.”
“No you don’t.”
“She told me!”
Mae’s eyes darken, then she moves to her dresser and pulls out a sock from the back of the drawer. “What are you going to do with it anyway?”
“I’m going to Yord’s place, and he wants beer.” It’s a lie, but it’s a very believable lie. Osha’s been seeing Yord off and on for months now. He was a nice guy, just a year older than her and extremely well-mannered. Well, for the most part. He told her one time that he liked dating someone “from the other side of the tracks” and ever since then she’s felt like a pet project of his, always being given advice from him or his parents when she visits. But hanging out at his place was nice—peaceful. Mr. and Mrs. Fandar let Yord drink wine at dinner, and Yord would sneak her some afterwards when they cuddled on the couch and his parents went to bed. It wouldn’t be appropriate to give someone else’s child alcohol, they’d explained. But Yord couldn’t resist Osha when she asked, always folding when she looked up at him with her big brown eyes.
But Yord wouldn’t fold when she asked him to fuck her. It makes sense, given their ages. Yord comes from a well-to-do family and he tells his parents everything. There’s no way he’d risk his future by accidentally getting a girl pregnant, especially someone like other-side-of-the-tracks-Osha. Yord doesn’t know what it’s like to want to grow up so fast—too fast, Osha understands. But she figures it’s better to be knowledgeable about sex at her age than not. She’s heard way too many horror stories having been raised in the foster system. And she thinks, darkly, that it would be best to have her first time be in her control, not someone else’s. And the clock is ticking.
So when she fumbles with her cash allowance stash in her purse as the cab driver holds out his grubby fingers, and she sees that she’ll only have enough to get back home, she knows she has to succeed tonight. She has to lose her virginity.
Osha shows the bouncer the ID. The photo of Mae has been touched up ever so slightly, erasing some of the baby fat in her cheeks, making her appear older. Osha sucks in her cheeks when the bouncer gives her a look.
Twenty-two. Yeah, I’m twenty-two. Of course I’m twenty-two.
She practices it in her mind, in case anyone asks. The bouncer hands her the ID and waves her through. She doesn’t let it show that she’s relieved and holds her breath all the way to the bar. It’s still fairly early in the night. The dancefloor only has a few people on it, and the music isn’t as loud as she was expecting. Everything inside is black, aside from the lights, and Osha’s gaze is drawn to a second floor where there’s warm lighting peaking out from red curtains.
“What do you want?”
Osha jumps. “What?”
The bartender waves, disregarding her and moving onto the next customer. Osha suddenly feels in over her head. She doesn’t have enough to buy a drink, but that’s what people do here, right? She hesitates a moment, then tries to get the bartender’s attention.
“You ready now?”
“Can I get a water?” She winces apologetically. The bartender rolls his eyes and points to the end of the bar. Osha follows the gesture to find a dispenser filled with ice water next to a stack of plastic cups.
“Oh, thank you!” she says, moving over to fill herself a glass. She can’t hide the mortification, and she assumes she’ll have to pretend it’s vodka to look enticing, or at least of age. She takes a small sip, then slowly makes her way upstairs, not sure what she’s looking for exactly, just that she needs to make this all worth it.
The room beyond the curtains upstairs is filled with warm light, draped tapestries, thick and thin curtains, and plenty of fluffy places to sit. There’s an easel in the corner with a half-finished painting of a naked woman drawn in an abstract style. The whole space has a bohemian feel to it, and Osha can’t quite put her finger on what it reminds her of until she sees a pretty blond woman wearing a long, fur coat. She snaps her fingers—Molly Gunns’ apartment in Uptown Girls. She finds an empty alcove draped in a white transparent canopy, with a white fur rug and pink pillows on the floor. It’s a bit ironic.
White and pure. Perfect spot for a virgin to perch herself, to wait for someone to come along and deflower her.
It’s here that she waits. Waits for the club to fill up, for the music to play louder, and for people to start congregating upstairs in louder, more boisterous crowds. No one pays her any mind. Osha looks down at her outfit—a powder blue crop sweater over a dark jean skirt. White tennis shoes. She nervously touches her natural hair, hoping it hasn’t lost its shape. All around her, the women wear heels, dresses, and clunky, colorful jewelry. They hold champagne flutes and coupe glasses and hold their manicured nails to their glossy lips when they laugh. One of them, the only other black woman in the room, wears her hair the same as Osha’s. It gives her a boost. At least she’s doing something right.
“Oh Qimir, have you been here this entire time?”
“Grace, excellent, I was hoping you would be here tonight.” Osha hears them greet each other with exaggerated kissing noises and blushes. Whoever he is, he sounds young and attractive.
“Are you going to continue your masterpiece in the corner?”
He laughs. “That thing? Hardly a masterpiece. And it seems I lost my model so I would be working on memory alone.”
The black woman saunters over to them, not paying Osha any mind, probably not seeing her at all. “Everyone knows that you’re more than capable of drawing a naked woman’s body from memory, Qimir. Now go on, give us some entertainment.”
Osha presses her thighs together in anticipation of finally seeing this ‘Qimir’ that everyone seems infatuated with. But when he walks out from the neighboring alcove, she can only watch as his back walks towards the easel—broad and tall. His hair is short but thick and dark. She curses, wishing he would turn around. Her eyes stay fixated on him as he prepares some paint in a tray, dips his brush, then starts to fill in the canvas with more of the woman’s form. His big, tan hands are muscular and move deliberately across the form. He uses red for her skin—not a natural skintone—and Osha wonders if it’s metaphorical.
Eventually, the others he was with turn to each other for conversation, only acknowledging him now and then. He seems to get lost in the painting, content with having something to do while his friends speak about nonsense. And as she becomes enthralled in his movements, Osha finds herself moving towards him. She seems to have completely abandoned her mission—what was she doing here again? She’s close now, so close she can smell the paint. Yes, she wants to see the painting up close. Wants to see—
“What was that I just heard about—” Qimir spins around as he’s confronting the group in a playful manner, his paint brush lifted in front of him, which incidentally comes across Osha’s cheek, marking her with red. She freezes, caught suddenly in his stare, at first surprised, then apologetic.
“Oh that’s a sight,” he says, looking around for something to clean his mess with.
“Sorry, I was just… I wanted to see…”
“It’s fine, hold still.” He reaches for her and Osha couldn’t move even if she wanted to. One of Qimir’s hands cups her face and he licks the thumb of the other before streaking it across her cheek. His sharp features, pillowy lips, and kind eyes make something hum in her very core.
“Damn,” he says. “Come on, I’ll get you cleaned up.”
“It’s fine,” she says, swallowing hard. There’s no way he could be the one. He’s far too pretty for her. And far too kind.
“No, no, it’s my fault.” He takes her by the hand and pulls her along. Osha stumbles behind him, looking at her hand which is being clasped so tightly by this stranger. He takes her into a restroom—non-gendered by the looks of it—and starts to pull some paper towels from a dispenser.
Osha looks at herself in the mirror. His touch left a red line across her face, making it sink into her pores even more. She admires it before Qimir comes closer with a dampened paper towel.
“You’re not very chatty for someone who just got paint on their face. Most women would be threatening to sue me for ruining their makeup.”
Osha’s eyes widen. She’s not wearing much makeup. Should she be? Should she be angry at him? Is he going to see her for what she really is? Young, dumb, and wanting to be full of his—
“What’s your name anyway?” he asks, causing her to remember where she’s at and why. He gently rubs at her face, doing his best to remove the paint.
“Osha,” she says, earnestly.
His eyes make contact with hers and she holds her breath. “You’re very pretty, Osha.” He steps back and looks at her. “Well, that’s the best I can do I think.” Osha turns to look in the mirror. The red on her cheek is still there, just less obvious, and she hopes he doesn’t see her true age in the brighter light of the bathroom.
“Thank you… Qimir? It’s Qimir, right?”
He nods and bites his lip and Osha sees his eyes run over her once. She feels warm under his gaze.
“Let me buy you a drink, Osha.”
~
They head back to the warm room and Qimir guides her into an alcove with soft yellow and orange textiles. Osha asks for wine—white wine, specifically (as specific as she can get). Qimir doesn’t find it suspicious and orders for her. When he does get specific and uses a fancy name for a white wine, she feels like curling up into a ball. But he’s kind, and he looks at her even when she’s not being all that interesting. It makes her pulse quicken.
“So you draw?” she asks, trying to make conversation before taking a sip of the wine. It’s fruity and it goes down easily. She’s so glad he was specific.
“I dabble. The people up there here are all artists of some kind. We’re all in the same dorm on campus.”
Campus. Right. She remembers that the club she’s in is right around the corner from the University of Chicago. He must think she’s also a student.
“Are you majoring in art?” she asks, an obvious follow up question.
“Not really.” He takes a sip of an amber liquid. “Journalism.”
Osha feels a swell in her chest. “Really? That’s my dream job.”
“Really?”
“Writing for magazines, traveling, interviewing people.”
“So you’re a journalism major too?”
She slams her mouth shut, thinking. “No. I’m…” She clears her throat. “I haven’t picked a major yet.”
Qimir regards her for a moment, then leans in. “I knew you seemed too young to be here.”
She looks up at him, guilty. She’s caught. It’s over. She’s going to have to run home with her tail between her legs. Virginal, pure Osha can’t even get a guy when she sets out to do so.
“It’s fine, I’ve seen freshmen here before. Everyone has fakes these days.”
And she’s back in the game. She swallows her surprise. He just assumed a lot, and assumed wrongly. But she’s not going to be fucking him for his perceptive skills, is she?
With the worst part out of the way, they chat more about what they want to do in life. Their dreams, ambitions, and hopes. Osha tells him a little about her life in the foster system, surprised by how receptive he is. He leans in, truly listening to her as she describes being passed from one home to the next, Mae always getting them in trouble. Osha was always the good one, but she also liked change. She pretends this is all in the distant past when she tells Qimir. She’s a college student now, living on her own.
And he shares a part of himself too. He was also without his biological parents, adopted by a wealthy single woman when he was eight. She asks him about living in an orphanage (not great), and he tells her about how strict his adoptive mother was and is an how it’s been a blessing and a curse.
“Kept me out of trouble, even when I was a monster. But now I’m free of her, so I like to make some mistakes now and then, while I’m still young… and dumb.” He gets closer to her then. Osha tenses. Is she actually going to get what she wants out of this?
“I don’t think you’re… dumb,” she says, watching Qimir’s eyes as they focus on her lips.
“Do you like me, Osha?” he asks, and there’s something under the surface that makes it feel absolutely illegal. Maybe because it is? Osha meets him the rest of the way, pushing her lips to his.
She’s kissed Yord plenty of times. They had make out sessions that always ended with him peeling her off of him and then sending her home before they got out of hand. But kissing Qimir? Kissing Qimir feels absolutely sinful. His tongue invades her mouth almost instantly, and his hand that cups her face forces her even closer so he can devour her. He tastes like the whiskey in his glass and Osha melts into him, allowing his kisses to run out of her mouth and down her neck. She lets out a whine, a little too loud, causing him to stop.
“We should take this somewhere else,” he says, and Osha knows she’s actually done it. She can’t believe it as he leads her out of the club, not even saying a word to his friends as they disappear into the night.
~~
Osha wakes the next morning in a small room, in a small bed, naked and sore. She looks around, at first confused, then realizes she’s laying next to Qimir. He’s facedown, sprawled out with an arm slung over her. She gently presses his arm off, then slips out of the bed, looking for her clothes which are strewn out all over the floor. She grabs each item quickly, putting them on as she moves towards the exit. She checks her purse, confirming she still has enough cash to get back home, then turns to look at Qimir one last time.
He rolls around, face up, licking his lips. But he’s still asleep. Osha takes a mental picture, not wanting to forget. And with that, she leaves.
~ten years later~
“Ms. Aniseya, so glad you could join us. Let me give you the grand tour.”
Osha shakes her editor’s hand and smiles brightly. It’s everything she’s ever worked for, finally in her grasp. A position at THE RAG, a once-indie magazine that’s quickly growing in popularity. Even though it wasn’t her first choice, Osha instantly feels at home in the offices of THE RAG. Which is good, because as an entry-level writing, she’s going to be expected to be here a lot.
As Sol walks her around the open concept office, she notices not too many people around. He explains that they can’t keep writers unless they offer a mostly work-from-home schedule (post-Pandemic world, and all), so she won’t be seeing many around unless they have special meetings or events. Osha’s fine with this. She can wear jeans to the office. She can store food in the kitchen here and not worry about others stealing it. She can sit in her office chair with her legs crossed under her, not having to worry about strict social customs with so few people around to reprimand her.
She could make her own space here. It’s nothing short of perfect.
“Ah, yes, here is your desk.” Sol points to cubicle in the corner, against the windows. She smiles at the lucky location—sunlight! She can bring in some plants.
“This is… so perfect, Sol. Thank you.”
The man regards her for a moment, smiling at her with a little more familiarity than she would expect from an editor. “We’re very happy to have you, Osha. I’ll let you get comfortable. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask…” He looks around, finding no one. “Well, you know where my office is.”
Osha nods politely and thanks him again. An IT person comes around to help her login on the PC at her desk. He doesn’t seem the chatty type, so she doesn’t say much. Soon, she’s in her work email, picking up assignments and officially starting her new job at THE RAG.
THE RAG is mostly a lifestyle magazine, specializing in art, fashion, technology, and (even though it’s not explicit) sex. Osha’s never written on sex, at least not solely or directly. She mostly sticks to topics that are human interest pieces—unbelievable stories with an interesting angle about society. She figures her experience in the foster system inspires this. She was always interviewing her new families and writing about them in her journals. She did the same with her roommates in college. She was destined for this. Or, at least, she had cultivated the right set of skills and traits throughout her life to be someone that’s actually quite good at it and likes doing it. At the very least, she’s lucky. Statistically, she shouldn’t have turned out this way.
“Fuckin’ hell,” someone says from the other side of the room. It carries to her in the silent space, and Osha tilts her head out of her cube just enough to see someone stomping towards her. His black hair is tied behind him, his facial hair that same dark color covering his lip and chin. His dark sleeves are rolled up to reveal several tattoos on his arms. Osha rushes back to her computer, hovering over it, almost hiding. She doesn’t know what’s come over her. Normally, she’d be excited to meet a coworker.
“Fucking fuckballs,” he says at he slides into the neighboring cubicle. Osha’s eyebrows raise as she listens to him continue. “Fucking hiring someone to do my fucking job.” He slams his fingers on his keyboard. “And she’s already picked up my assignment. Fucking great.”
Osha pales. She should just make herself known. It’s already awkward enough, she wouldn’t want him to continue. No, she should just sneak away and then make her entrance—give him a redo, pretend this never happened.
But then she hears her name on his lips, whispering, “Osha? Osha… Osha…” And then, knowing. “Osha.”
She can’t take it anymore. Osha stands and walks around the cubicle wall that separates them.
“I’m so sorry, I—” Osha can’t finish her sentence. Because in front of her, sitting with his legs spread and his strong hands gripping the handrests of his office chair, is Qimir.
His hand touches her breast in the dark, rolling her nipple between his fingers.
Qimir, the journalism major with a gorgeous smile and perfect hair.
His lips on her skin leave sparks behind as they trail down her belly.
Qimir, the natural flirt who once marked her with red paint.
He rolls them over so she’s looking down at him, his hands pressing into her hips.
Qimir, the man who took her virginity.
“Osha.” Qimir simply stares at her, suddenly at a loss for words.
“Qimir,” she finally says, knowing that he only knows a small piece of the full story of their encounter nearly a decade ago. Was it really that long ago? Osha does the math. She was, what, sixteen?
“What are the odds?” he asks, a smirk forming on his lips.
“Yeah, it’s crazy, right?” The words he said before start to sink in, and she feels hurt. She deserves to be here. She’s worked really hard to be here.
“Your hair looks different.”
Osha’s hand shoots to her braids. She brushes them over her shoulder.
“I didn’t realize you’d be working in the office,” he says.
“I’m entry-level, so…”
He squints at her. “Entry-level?” Osha starts to panic, but he shrugs it off quickly, not caring to do the math. “Whatever, just… don’t pick up my assignments.” He turns to his computer, and the way in which he’s disregarding her makes her blood boil.
“I’m doing the job I was hired to do.”
He gives her a side glance which makes her want to jump out of her skin. “You were hired to fulfill the company’s women-in-the-workplace quota.” Another side glance. “Probably helps that you’re a minority too.”
Osha grits her teeth together. She doesn’t know how much truth there is to his words, but Qimir’s Asian, she's pretty sure. He’s a person of color, technically, so she’s worried that he’s actually being frank. Still, why tell her, especially right after she’s started the job? It feels mean-spirited.
“I shouldn’t have to ask your permission to pick up assignments.” She chooses reason over emotion.
Qimir clicks around on his computer a moment, then sighs. “I suppose you’re right. We should have a long-term solution to this… predicament.” He faces her again, leaning back in his chair as he crosses his legs. Osha can’t help but take in the sight of him, more muscled and filled out compared to the man who popped her cherry so long ago. All grown up.
“Let’s say… every three assignments or so. If something doesn’t interest me, I’ll let you take it.”
Considering how angry he was at first, it seems generous. Osha nods. “Maybe I can assist you with some of the ones you take? I can conduct interviews or do research…” She sees his expression puzzle and realizes she’s showing her inexperience.
“You weren’t hired as an assistant.” He shrugs. “I mean, sure, if you want to, I can pass you some busy work.”
Osha takes a deep breath. “Thank you, really. I’m just… I’m really excited to be working here. I’m glad we could clear that up.” He simply goes back to his computer, so Osha walks back to her cubicle, feeling like the wall might as well not be there at all. She can sense him, hear him sigh, hear him curse under his breath, hear him take a sip of whatever’s in his thermos. Her first day goes on like this: researching for first assignment, and praying that Qimir doesn’t speak to her again. They could send each other Slack messages, or just use email, she decides. Maintaining professionalism is most important, and having Qimir figure out her age would be… well that would be bad, right?
Right. It would be very, very bad. So she keeps her head down, eats her lunch in the breakroom, and wears her headphones while at her desk. By the time she’s gathering her things to leave, she realizes that Qimir’s already gone; his cube empty and computer locked. She looks around at the empty office floor and decides to snoop.
There are drawings pinned on the wall—some watercolor, others pastels, all abstract. It seems like the same style she can still recall; same as the red woman on the easel. She follows them down a trail to some pictures, framed near his computer. She recognizes the place some were taken; it’s the bohemian room at the club she snuck into. Candid photos of friends together, then one catches her eye that’s different. Qimir and another woman stand together. She’s clutching an old camera to her chest and laughing as though Qimir just said something hilarious. Qimir’s arm is wrapped around her waist, lips just barely touching her cheek. His eyes are closed, his smile is soft…
Osha sucks in a breath and turns away from the cubicle, not allowing herself to feel jealous. It’s silly to think her mind would even go there. She hasn’t seen the man in a decade, and they only spent one night together.
But that one night was the longest night of her life. She remembers every detail, every touch, every sensation. She shakes it off. Maybe if he keeps being mean to her, she’ll get the ick and it will turn her off of him forever. She welcomes the ick. Opens her soul to the ick.
Please, god, let me get the ick.