fiction.
She sat up and covered her nakedness with the fluffy down blanket on his queen-sized bed. Her garments were strewn around the room; a black satin bra, a short khaki skirt, and a sheer white tank top, each item she had carefully selected for him. His bed, the center of his room and the symbol of his manhood, was now in disarray. Once he had bragged to her about his three-hundred dollar Armani sheets and matching duvet cover. No other guy he knew spent three-hundred dollars on a duvet cover; a fact embarrassing for any other man to mention, but not for him. He was one who knew exactly what details would bait and land his women, hook line and sinker. He took great pride in his courting methods.
He sat on the edge of his bed, his back turned away from her. The room was quiet except for the rustling of buttons and zippers. A thick layer of summer heat filled the air and it felt right against the silence. It wasn't exactly awkward between them. After all, she was the one who had called him and asked to come over. Dinner was her excuse. She offered to cook him a full three-course supper, and how could he say no to that? She had even brought over all the various pots, pans, and utensils she needed to prepare a fine meal. Now both the meal and the heated events that followed were over. Only two silent people and a messy bedroom were left.
"Something to drink?" he asked gruffly.
"Sure."
He shoved a hat on his shaved head and left her in the bedroom alone. Half-naked, she clutched a bra in her hand. Her mind wandered in all different directions. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. Inside, her heart was shattered into bits, and she had just ripped off another shred and given a piece of herself to a man who collected pieces of girls' hearts in a forgotten box on his closet shelf. But she had asked for it, hadn't she? Practically placed herself right in front of a blazing fire to get burned. She had no one to blame but herself. After all, he had even asked her if she was sure she knew what she was doing before he had touched her. Of course she was sure. She wanted to please him; make him happy. And there was one way she knew how. His moans of promise in the heat of the moment were proof to her that she knew exactly which buttons to push to physically please him. Oh, how she longed for those brief minutes they would lose themselves in one another and everything in her life seemed right. He called her beautiful, "the best ever," whispering vows of happiness and a future together. No one pleased him better than her, he said. In the height of passion, everything was always perfect. Those moments she craved.
It was the hour after she hated. He never said more than a few short words to her. The silence didn't bother her so much, but rather the shallowness of the words he did speak. Strangers shared more meaningful conversations. Once they were finished on the bed, she could practically predict the next hour: He would ask her if she wanted water or something to drink, and then he would walk to the kitchen and smoke a cigarette. She would sit on his bed for a while, chastising herself and making vows never to see him again. After she finished dressing, she would meet him in the kitchen. He'd be sitting at the kitchen table with two glasses of water, or sometimes coke, in front of him. She'd take the seat across from him and they would sit in silence, their eyes not meeting, each sipping on separate beverages. He would make small talk, asking her what she was going to do with the rest of her day. She would answer, brief short sentences. When she had lingered long enough, she'd place her glass in the sink, collect her things and force her face into a perky smile, as if everything was okay when inside she was falling to pieces.
"Call me later?" she'd ask.
"Of course," he'd reply.
He'd kiss her softly on the lips and she'd linger in the moment, wanting it to be the last time she'd feel his lips against hers, but knowing that she'd be back in his bedroom again in one week.
She knew exactly how the events would play out. It was the same each time. She couldn't stop herself. Every week she'd be back on his bed, listening to empty words of a future together and waiting for the moment she would paste a plastic grin on her face and pretend everything was all right. Why would next week be any different?
Things will be different one day, she told herself. He would follow through on his promises. He had to. This was the only hope she had left to cling to. She had given herself to him over and over again, and each time he had taken a piece of her. Soon, he would own all pieces of her and she would have nothing left of herself. Even if she wanted to, she didn't know how to collect the broken parts of her heart back from him. How could she? She had no idea which pieces were missing. No, her only remaining hope of happiness was during those brief heated moments they shared together, and she clung onto them with violent passion.
Checking her reflection in his full-length mirror, she pulled a shirt over her head and neatly applied makeup on her lips, eyes, and cheeks, creating a false glow on her face. Black mascara always brought out the seductiveness in her eyes. She was a pro at making herself up exactly how he liked.
Next time, things would be different.
She closed the door to his bedroom and headed to the kitchen, a smile forced on her lips.