You don’t love me, but that’s fine. I don’t love you either. I remind you somehow of the man you do love, the one who made you cry tonight. The man who drove you to me. You love someone else. I don’t even love myself.
I brought you here anyway. Plucked you like a flower from the barstool where you cried into a wine glass. I hunted you like a predator. I told you everything you wanted to hear. Then I took you to this cheap motel and I used you. I shudder with how callous I’ve become.
You sit on the edge of the bed, the blanket pulled around your shoulders. You shiver, though the room is not cold. I smoke a cigarette, propped up against the cheap headboard of the hotel. We are inches away from each other, but miles apart.
“Was it… Was it good?” You whisper the question, though there is no one around to hear. You came here to prove a point to yourself. But as the alcohol haze fades the shame takes its place. You are suddenly uncomfortable with your nakedness and you pull the blanket tighter around you.
“It was fine.” I know that won’t give you what you need. I know you need me to tell you you’re special, tell you you’re beautiful. You need me to tell you that he’s a fool for hurting you. I don’t. I can sense you waiting for me to say something. To say anything else but “fine.” I don’t. I sense the distance between us now, but do nothing to bridge it. I take another drag off of my cigarette and drop it into an half full beer can. It goes out with a hiss. The only sound in the room is the droning of the air conditioner.
You dress. You are embarrassed to be naked in front of me now. My callousness has turned me into a stranger. I feel the self loathing coming in waves as I sense your hurt. You don’t want to cry. Not here in front me. I should comfort you. I should hold you, or just touch you. I should do something to connect with you. You need me to tell you that things get better. But I’m not a liar. Men cheat, women get cancer and die, and God laughs. I take the pack of cigarettes off the nightstand and offer you one. You turn away and pull your dress over your head.
I light another cigarette as you go.