... it'll just have to be a blind experiment.

"Of course, sorry I... I didn't think about that," you lie.

She seems to buy it, and with a tired sigh starts lecturing you on how aware you now need to be about where you leave your "mark" in as tight and unsanitary a place as your apartment building, let alone the Lower East Side where it's situated.

A plan begins to brew in your mind, and you decide to play dumb. REAL dumb. You ask her to repeat herself, ask definitions to words (only most of which you didn't already know), and try to guide the conversation into humorous tangents, most of which she never finds more than smirk-worthy. In a sense, you feel like you're back in high school, pretending to be over her and playing the best friend in hopes that, against all evidence and odds, she'd turn bi for you.

All that has changed between then and now is the ulterior motive, and not by much. Only fifteen minutes into the conversation, and she's sighing heavily, perspiring a bit and, perhaps what makes her realize something is wrong, warms her face enough that she starts to feel her cheeks.

"I... I'll be right back," she mutters as she flees to the bathroom... leaving you alone in her apartment for precious minutes. You worked to hide it, but you've been rock hard since the idea manifested in your head. Staying calm and lasting long was never your gift, and you can feel that it wouldn't take much to blow your load while she sorted herself out on the toilet. But where? The way she made it sound seemed like you would have to hide it in something that goes inside her, but stealthy enough to-

You rush, as quietly as you can, towards her kitchen. You recall the one thing she ate without exception, every day, through high school and university. Among the sparse provisions of a woman who would starve herself out of forgetfulness or distraction, you see the one food that has not changed in her life: two family-sized boxes of Frosted Flakes. And while there's no way that you could get away with frosting these flakes directly, in the fridge you found what could: a half-empty gallon of full milk.

Your breath comes out ragged as you undo your pants while clumsily placing the jug on the tile floor. You can already see it in your mind's eye: Devi pouring it over her cereal. The cold milk preserving your swimmers. The viscosity of the milk only slightly off, raising no suspicion as the first of many spoonfuls of milk and seed touch her tongue-

The bathroom door flies open, and a panicking Devi pops her head out of it and cranes over to look at the kitchen... then back to the couch, where you're playing with your phone. You look up with a bored expression, trying to pretend you don't see how flustered she really is. "You know," you offer, "I guess this is how people with Hepatitis have to live, yeah?"

Devi nods slowly... and swallows visibly. Finally, with a sigh, she asks you to leave her apartment and to not return until she says it's okay. It seems she caught on to half of your game... but too late to keep you from vigorously shaking a milk jug with an three added tablespoons of you.