We see each other from across the room, but we look away. We pretend not to see, which is easy, but comical if dissected on a social level. There are forty people standing between me and him right now, and I think that we both like it that way. It’s easier that way. It’s easier to scan the room and scan over the face of someone I used to fuck when there are forty other people worth looking at instead.
We edge closer and closer, mostly because his friends are my friends and my friends are his friends, but not in such a serious way that mandates some sort of perfunctory meet and greet amongst friends. We merely overlap in dark bars like this, and the noise level and the crowd make it easy for us to keep looking away. To keep looking beyond. To pretend not to see. To not acknowledge each other even though in the past in dark rooms that are hot like this but with only the two of us, the things we have done and the things we have said – he has seen me naked. He has seen me cum. But now he doesn’t see me at all, as I sway with this drink in my hand and look for any other attractive man to come to my rescue and sweep me back to some bedroom. Anyone but him, because I am sick of him.
We are getting closer and closer in this dank, dark room, and we are nearing that moment of crisis when we can no longer ignore each other without adamantly ignoring each other. He is talking to my friends. I am dancing with his. Until finally, and this is when we should see each other. Until the moment that comes when we should look at each other and smile. That moment when we should say hello and half heartedly half hug each other. That moment is encroaching, and right when it should happen, right when we should make eye contact – that is when we both turn away. Avoiding forever the collision of his eyes in mine. Avoiding us seeing each other and both knowing. Avoiding the dismal realization that it was never meant to be, but that, also, neither of us wants it anymore anyways. It is mutual, which is a relief, and we wonder away back into the crowd, in separate directions, still pretending not to see.
My friends do not notice, and I say nothing to them as we careen further into this night of drinking and debauchery. No one can tell that I know him, as he wafts back into the crowd, and no one in this room knows that he used to fuck me. No one knows that I know his name, and all about his mother, and what his skin looks like at 8 AM. No one can tell that we both once tried to love each other and failed.
It is over, and that’s okay, because it only takes a few moments for a new one to show up and try his hand at fucking me. I will let him try. I will let him succeed. And I will forget about tonight as quickly as I can.