untitled

01

I’m a bad person, I explain, and I don’t know if I’ll ever become a better one. I don’t know if I care enough to become a better one.

He shrugs. You know the quote, he reminds me. “If you’re ever scared you’re a bad person just remember that bad people don’t care about being better.” At least you’re self-aware, it’s the first step in growth.

Didn’t you hear me? I ask. My eyes narrow. I don’t think I care enough to become a better one. I don’t care about being better. Your quote is irrelevant. If anything it’s proving my point, that I’m a bad person.

His head shakes from side to side, slowly, his hair barely moving. No, you don’t get it. You do care.

No, I don’t.

Yes, you do.

How would you know?

You’re telling me about it.

Now it’s my turn to shrug. Maybe I just don’t want you to keep falling any more in love with me.

Who said I was falling in love with you?

Are you not?

I never said that either.

You don’t have to.

You’re not a bad person.

You don’t even know what I did.

No, but I don’t need to.

Yes, you do.

Did you cheat on me?

No.

Does it involve me?

Not directly.

Will it impact me? Will it change the course of my life?

Yes.

How so?

It will irreversibly change how you see me.

That’s not always a bad thing.

In this case it is.

I think I should be the judge of that.

I don’t know if I can tell you.

Do you want to?

No, but you deserve to know.

And why is that?

Because you’re falling in love with a façade.

Everyone is a façade to some extent. You’re more real than anyone else I have ever met.

No, I’m not. You barely even know me.

Do you even know why I’m falling in love with you?

No, and I don’t want to.

Then I don’t want to know what you did.

Oh.

Yeah. Oh. Checkmate.

02

Sunshine outlines the curtains, waking me up slowly, peacefully, tugging me into groggy awareness rather than unapologetically yanking my consciousness into my head. His body is next to mine. We aren’t touching, but I can feel the heat emanating from his skin. We’re both naked. Not because we had sex last night—we didn’t—but because that’s how we’ve always slept together, ever since the day we met. We haven’t had any type of sex in a very long time. I think it’s because we’re both fucking other people.

He tells me that I was the first girl to make him cum from penetration. I’m pretty sure that’s only because I’m the first girl he fucked without a condom. I can’t call what we do having sex—it’s fucking. And people who call fucking “making love” are just trying to convince themselves it’s more beautiful than it is. Fucking is an art form, but it’s not beautiful. It’s not loving. Or maybe I’m just doing it wrong.

We’re probably just doing it wrong.

How long have you been awake?

I turn to look at his face. His eyes are still closed and in this moment of peace he is beautiful. Not that long, maybe a few minutes.

Lie back down. Come here, be with me.

I lay my head on his bare chest. I can hear his heartbeat. It’s slow, relaxed. I don’t need to peek under the blankets to know he’s flaccid. It’s been so long since I last made his dick hard that I lost count of the months.

How did you sleep?

Fine, you?

I slept okay. No bad dreams. Do you want coffee?

Can we go out for it?

Sure. Can we go out in an hour though? I want to stay in bed just a little longer. I missed holding you.

His arm comes up to wrap around me and he gives my body a squeeze. This is the closest we have been in a very long time.

I’ve missed you too.

He kisses the top of my head.

These are the moments that make us stay with each other.

03

Are you okay?

No.

Do you want a tissue?

No.

Do you want a hug?

No.

Ok.

04

Do you even want to be with me anymore?

Why wouldn’t I?

05

I think I’m in love with you.

He says it so nonchalantly that I wonder if I’ve imagined it. Oh? is all I manage to say. Just in case I heard him wrong.

Sorry, let me rephrase that. I’m in love with you.

I put down the whisk in my hand and push aside the bowl of pancake batter so that I can lean forward against the counter without my hair falling into it. Are you only saying this because you think I’ll do anal with you if you tell me you’re in love with me? He laughs at that, loudly. Because if that’s the case then please take it back.

He stands and comes around the island to wrap his arms around me. I lean my forehead against his chest and he kisses the top of my head, softly, thirteen times, for the thirteen red roses he brought me on our first date. He’s sentimental like that. I used to hate sentimental men. I think I’m in love with him too. I’m not ready to say it yet, though.

No, that’s not why I’m saying it, he says as he shakes his head. I’m in love with you. I don’t care if you say it back.

Okay, I tell him.

Okay, he responds.

He kisses me again, this time on the lips, and I go back to making pancakes.