The Apartment

I sat up and held her. "I've seen you do your thing. I've heard you talk about it for years. You like where you are. You love it. I love it here. What we have is beautiful just the way it is, but do you really see it going down domestic roads?"

"I can't get you out of my head, when I'm at home," she admitted like it was a dirty secret. "I hear a song on the radio, I think of you. I hear your city in the news, I think of you. I shut my eyes at night and end up with dreams full of crazy sex with you courtesy of my sub-conscious. I can't make it stop. The way I feel when I think of you, when I'm around you, I thrive on it. It's like I'm a better version of myself around you. But then we talk like this and I feel like I'm unimportant, like we're only sex partners, like I'm so unimportant in your life that you never think of me when I'm not around. And I'm jealous that you're able to be so -- flippant -- about what I treasure."

"I have to be. It's self-preservation," I responded quietly in her ear. In response, her body went hard and stiff. She shook her head a few times and clung to me to the point that her small, clenched fists dug into my bare back. I expected her to break away and start yelling. Then she surprised me by going completely limp.

"Does this mean we're done?" she asked after several minutes passed of me stroking her back from neck to ass right down her spinal column like she was a cat.

"I don't want to be done," I said. "I hope it just means we understand that we have boundaries."

I could feel a couple wet splotches of her tears hit my skin as she nestled her face back into my shoulder. She didn't cry long. Instead, she wiped her tears and nose on the towel from her shower, composed herself and said, "I'm starved. Can we get out of here and go for food?"

"Sure, what do you want?"

"Milkshake, burger, fries, nothing good for me."

"Done."

We kissed softly and then retreated to opposite sides of the bedroom to get dressed. As I watched her layer herself in her usual black ensemble, I couldn't shake the feeling I'd just broken something inside of her. She stood in front of me completely dressed, but more naked than I'd ever seen her. Her ability to be completely honest and vulnerable with me was a rarity among women. I got the feeling she wasn't like this with anyone else either. I finished dressing and reached out for her hand. She hesitated before giving it to me. I ran my thumb over the back of her hand to her wrist. It was a touch of reassurance. She nodded and smiled her best fake smile to show she was trying to get over the hurtful parts of our conversation.

As we left the house, she turned and locked the door. Then she pushed on the solid wood once or twice to be sure it was locked. Somehow I got the feeling she'd locked up part of herself that way, too, and I was pretty sure I wasn't going to get the unfettered access to her that I'd had over the last decade. This feeling of grief washed over me as we made our way down the stairs and onto the street toward the café.