He’s sitting there, talking about her again, and I’m listening, mostly because I decided earlier today that I think I love him. Although now as he winds himself into circles, fretting his brow as he spits tomes about her, I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps that love is slightly misplaced. It’s hard for me to sit here and listen to him say, “I thought things were going to work out with her!” When moments ago he was pushing into the softness of me, his skin on my skin, my legs wrapped around him, and now I’m curious to know if the reason he looked away in those moments of fucking was because he didn’t want to look at me and see that I’m still not her. I’ll never be her, even as I lie here, looking pretty, saying funny things, being understanding. With his head on my shoulder, and I’ll never be her because I’ll never be as awful as she is. Hours ago, I thought I loved him, but here he is, gnashing his teeth as he details exactly everything she does to him that is cruel and uncomely. He tells me that she lies to him constantly, and I know it’s the truth. “But you never lie to me,” he says, and I nod in agreement because like the fool I am, I always tell the truth. And he tells me that she doesn’t fuck him anymore, and I believe him because believing him seems like a better option than thinking it’s another lie. Instead, I’m the one who fucks him, but I know that there has never been a moment between the two of them when they are sitting there naked, and he is talking about me. He doesn’t talk to her about me – not the way that he talks to me about her. He doesn’t sit there and moan about me and how much I don’t love him because why would he? I already love him, and there’s nothing glamorous about being loved by someone who will never lie or withhold sex in the name of stringing along some sadistic emotional cat and mouse game of how much pain does it take to make someone want you forever. Instead, I am stuck here loving him, and he is lying there, not caring. Not feeling. Not appreciating the love that I have all wrapped up in pink paper and tied with a bow. He doesn’t want my love, mostly because it’s not her love. So I wonder what would happen if he finally got her love – would he toss it in the trash like he does with me? Or would he cherish it, because I’m wondering if he even knows how.