It’s strange to see him again. Cameron, that is. No matter how many times I have tried to stop myself from the decadence of sleeping with him, I have always felt myself going back to him. Sometimes I managed to trick myself into thinking that I didn’t have feelings for him, but once my cover was blown, my feelings would come back full force and with reckless abandon. Either way I always found myself drunkenly stumbling over to his house at all hours of the night.
“Yeah, it has” he agrees.
It’s all he really can say. He feels the need to mention who’s getting to know his bed now. Good thing I sat on the edge. I nod my head robotically, “Yeah, that’s cool.”
I need a cigarette so that I have something to do with my hands, but when I pat my pockets, I find that I don’t have a pack with me.
The same sexual tension that I always felt around him isn’t there, and if it is, I can’t feel it. And just because you can feel it, doesn’t mean it’s there anyway. I don’t have the compulsion to become reacquainted with the ghosts of these sheets, and then to wake up in the morning wishing we’d never met, like a hangover that wasn’t worth the drink. And that’s a good thing, because I don’t think I could stand another ride on that goddamn carousel without getting sick.
Fuck it, that’s a god honest lie.
I’d sacrifice motion sickness for another night with him any day. Who am I kidding? But, all I know is that I don’t want him to check my closet because I’m afraid of how many skeletons he will find- a pile of bones for a suit of skin that I don’t feel comfortable in.
—story by MARISA CRANE