Casual

img_8758I wished it was over as soon as it began. I wondered vaguely what I had wanted, what the disconnection was between what my head wanted and what my body clearly could do without.

I didn’t know how to tell him I didn’t care if I finished, because I’d rather he just end it so I could go home and sleep. Maybe I just liked knowing someone wanted me- because the sweat, the pain, and the awkward recognition of fakery in my own voice I could do without. I didn’t bother to fix any of it because I didn’t really care.

When it was over I lay for about a minute before he asked me how I felt.

“Just fine!” I said, because I didn’t know.

“Great” he said, closing his eyes and smiling.

This bitch was about to fall asleep- if I didn’t leave now, I’d be stuck with the awkward “do I wake him up to say goodbye, or can I please just go” question, which I did not have time for. Work was going to suck the next day as it was.

I got up to retrace the mental notes I had made about where my bra was, which chair I had dropped my purse on so I could shove my bra in, etc. He watched me put on my underwear and smiled.

“I like you. You get things done. Like, you just…do them.”

I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the mediocre sex (with a bonus of both pedophilic and incestual undertones), or to the fact that I was already leaving. I decided it was probably all of the above.

I finished pulling on my shoes, strapped my purse around my shoulder and called a car, resting on the side of the bed.

“You looked better naked” he said, closing his eyes again.

“Well…thank you” I replied, not sure it deserved thanks. “I was cold, so…”

“You could have gotten under the covers.”

“It’s ok, I have to go home anyway.”

“How much is that gonna cost you?”

“10, 15 dollars. It’s not that bad.”

“I should pay for that. I should drive you home, I should be a gentleman.”

I raised my eyebrows and patted his arm.

“You, are drunk. And I should sleep. I was going to pay for a car home anyway.”

He kept looking at me like he was trying to say things, trying to play his part, but was just too tired.

Thank God. I felt like a mother (in the least creepy way possible), or a nurse, tucking a child into bed with a lollipop and a smile. I patted his arm once more when my phone buzzed, told him to get some sleep, and headed out to the waiting car. I didn’t think any more about it, except for praying that I didn’t hurt tomorrow and kicking myself for staying up so late.

So what did it? The fact that I didn’t want to sleep? That he’s cute when he doesn’t talk? That he was still there, that the other He hadn’t answered me? That he said it was a onetime thing?

Dispassionate curiosity is something a lot of people have a hard time believing in, but once in a while, there it is; and there, as usual, the answers aren’t. I wondered why he said that, without caring that he did.

I didn’t want connection, I didn’t want love. I just wanted someone to reach out for me- and then I promptly wanted to be alone.

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