She came over in fuck me boots and lip gloss, jeans painted on and skin tight. When she stretched herself across my floor, the yearning deepened and became hard and pulling, imagination running between her thighs with a firm hand and stiff fingers. We’d been out before. And back in her apartment she talked about being cummed on and told me she knew I’d thought about cumming on her face. But she didn’t want to kiss. And she told me she didn’t want to betray C even though she knew we were divorcing. But that was before and now she was in my apartment with the Ritz Carlton looking on through the window from across the street like a dirty wedding cake. We ate the spaghetti I’d made while sitting on the floor and each swallowed a fistful of Irish Whiskey. There was no laughter or joy. No love. I just wanted to forget myself forever and bash my self hate out on her, give her everything I had no courage to show to anyone before. “Let’s go,” she said and we went down to the Owl Tree and then the pool room on Market where we drank the colorless poison sambuca without questioning where it could lead. And then we were in the cab and she tried to fuck my mouth with her tongue and we went upstairs to my apartment and staggered around with our naked crass desires, only to wake with headaches and no desire to ever see each other again, only my self-loathing for comfort and the realization that I was lost and could go no further as I was.
