My lover made a girl cry last week. He felt bad about it because, as he admitted, she didn’t do anything wrong. I imagine it went something like this:
Text from Ashley @ 9:58 pm: Hey you! Whatcha doing?
He looks at the phone, deciding whether or not to text back. The whiskey he’s been drinking since five has him feeling too tired to leave the house. He knows what a late night text from this girl means even though it’s been months since he’s seen her. All he has to do is text her back and unlock the door.
She kneels in front of him, gently stroking his masterpiece with her hands. It feels good, but different. He looks down and jumps back, regretting the sudden jerk on his manhood. Why is this girl here? He fumbles through his Jack Daniel’s soaked brain, finally remembering the text he sent asking her to come over.
He lays down on the bed and she crawls up next to him, talking about what she and her girlfriends had done the night before at the bar. But he doesn’t want her to talk. Her voice is the wrong voice.
“Be quiet,” he tells her.
She sits up.
“Well that’s a fine way to talk to me when I come over to get you off,” she smarts back, and continues talking.
“If you came here to get me off, then why don’t you quit talking and do something more productive with your mouth.”
“I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
“I didn’t want to see you. I just wanted you to get me off and go.”
“But, you asked me to come over!”
“Yeah… to get me off!”
“You’re an asshole!” she finally explodes.
“Get out!” he yells, “Get out of my house! I don’t want you here! I don’t want you!”
Her eyes fill with tears as she buttons her shirt and searches the floor for her shoes. My lover lays in bed, angry. She grabs her purse, and stands beside the bed so he can see that she’s crying. He looks at her and turns away. She’s not the one he wants. She’s not the one who calms him with her presence. She’s not the one who gets off just by having him in her mouth. She’s not the one who diffuses his anger with laughter. She’s not the one who adores him, flaws and all. She’s not the one who has never tried to change him. She’s not the one who gives him freedom he no longer desires. She’s not the one he reaches for in the night and is sad when she’s not there.
She didn’t do anything wrong. She’s just not me.