dee

you roll your eyes, “god forbid i want to be held after you just fucked me.” the words have a bite to them. they always do. “try and act a little less disgusted, please. you’re hurting my feelings.” every syllable drips with sarcasm.

“don’t be so fucking dramatic. i’m not even kicking you out, yet,” she’s returning your energy now.

the bickering before the sex is just foreplay, but this? there’s never any justification beyond the reality: you’re simply incompatible.

“i’m not dramatic. i just feel things, and i speak about those feelings. maybe you could learn a thing or two.”

you hear her huff a heavy breath, “why do you do this every time? don’t you get tired?”

“yes,” you mutter, your cheek is still pressed to her arm, “i’m so tired.”

there’s a beat of silence.

“why won’t you tell our friends about us?” she doesn’t answer, but you see her staring blankly at her phone. “does it make things easier for you? me being a shameful secret you keep?”

“what’s the point of even telling them?” she turns the phone off. setting it on the bed, “they’ll just ask a million questions. and we’ll have to explain that it’s just sex. we’re just friends who fuck sometimes.”

“are we?”

“what?”

the numbness is starting to settle in the pit of your chest again. “are we friends?”

“what the fuck are you talking about?” she’s getting more annoyed with every question. like you’re that constant thorn in her side she can’t get rid of.

“if i came over tonight and decided i didn’t want to have sex. would you let me stay?” you’re sitting up now, looking down at her. it doesn’t even register to you anymore that you’re both completely naked, “would get takeout with me and watch a movie?”

“i mean…if you wanted to i would.”

your laugh is loud. it’s out of place. “you make it sound like a chore.”

“can you please stop this?” she’s almost pleading now. “i’ll let you sleepover, ok?” she pulls you back down to her side. “and we can talk about this in the morning.”

you won’t. you never do. you’ll wake up tomorrow morning, and she’ll be gone. she’ll pretend you didn’t see each other tonight, like she didn’t eat you out in her passenger seat, like she didn’t drag you back to her apartment lips damn near attached to hers the whole way, like she hadn’t almost let a “love you,” mid-orgasm.

you roll your eyes, “god forbid i want to be held after you just fucked me.” the words have a bite to them. they always do. “try and act a little less disgusted, please. you’re hurting my feelings.” every syllable drips with sarcasm.

“don’t be so fucking dramatic. i’m not even kicking you out, yet,” she’s returning your energy now.

the bickering before the sex is just foreplay, but this? there’s never any justification beyond the reality: you’re simply incompatible.

“i’m not dramatic. i just feel things, and i speak about those feelings. maybe you could learn a thing or two.”

you hear her huff a heavy breath, “why do you do this every time? don’t you get tired?”

“yes,” you mutter, your cheek is still pressed to her arm, “i’m so tired.”

there’s a beat of silence.

“why won’t you tell our friends about us?” she doesn’t answer, but you see her staring blankly at her phone. “does it make things easier for you? me being a shameful secret you keep?”

“what’s the point of even telling them?” she turns the phone off. setting it on the bed, “they’ll just ask a million questions. and we’ll have to explain that it’s just sex. we’re just friends who fuck sometimes.”

“are we?”

“what?”

the numbness is starting to settle in the pit of your chest again. “are we friends?”

“what the fuck are you talking about?” she’s getting more annoyed with every question. like you’re that constant thorn in her side she can’t get rid of.

“if i came over tonight and decided i didn’t want to have sex. would you let me stay?” you’re sitting up now, looking down at her. it doesn’t even register to you anymore that you’re both completely naked, “would get takeout with me and watch a movie?”

“i mean…if you wanted to i would.”

your laugh is loud. it’s out of place. “you make it sound like a chore.”

“can you please stop this?” she’s almost pleading now. “i’ll let you sleepover, ok?” she pulls you back down to her side. “and we can talk about this in the morning.”

you won’t. you never do. you’ll wake up tomorrow morning, and she’ll be gone. she’ll pretend you didn’t see each other tonight, like she didn’t eat you out in her passenger seat, like she didn’t drag you back to her apartment lips damn near attached to hers the whole way, like she hadn’t almost let a “love you,” mid-orgasm.