She’s finally gone. I deadbolt the front door so she can’t get back in.
If my mother returns, I’ll tell her I didn’t hear the door. I was
afraid. I was sleeping. I’ll never tell her I was lonely.



I stand before my hazy bedroom mirror and check off my inventory; a
Fuck the World poster, dead flowers in a dirty vase, and tiny strings
of incense ash hanging off the bookshelf, dangerously hovering above
thick red shag carpet. I unwrap the white towel, dingy and stained from
the black dye fading out of my mohawk, and lie down on the bed. He
always liked it when I got naked before I called.



“Hello?”



“Come see me tonight,” I say into the phone.



“Crys?”



“Come see me.”



“Where are you?”



“Back at my mother’s.”



“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”



Anxiety awakens in my heart. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want
to know that I’ll only have tonight, but I have to. I need a lump to
rise in the back of my throat. I need a pain in my heart that draws up
my stomach. I need to feel like I can never have him again. I lie to
myself and say this will be the last time.



I go to the mirror. I want him to see me and ache. I pull my hair over
my shoulders so the freshly shaven sides of my head are covered. I want
to look innocent and helpless - at first. But even under the cover of
hair, the rings in my nipples catch the light of the lamp. He’ll have
to use his imagination.



He’ll stop at the park three blocks away. He’ll trot down the sidewalk
on the north side of the road where there are no streetlamps. He’ll
hold onto the latch on the gate. He’ll push the gate closed and gently
lower the latch, without raising a sound or suspicion.



I hear a grunt below my bedroom window when he climbs on top of the
iron railing and reaches above the kitchen window. The key slides into
the door. The deadbolt locks behind him.



He doesn’t say anything when he comes through my bedroom door. He
slowly undresses, watching me, searching my face. I smile and he climbs
into bed.



Every time with him is new now, despite the routine that brings us
together. The moon reflects off his black hairless chest. I kiss it. He
buries his nose in my hair, and I chew the end of a dreadlock.



He is so sweet when he cries. A hint of heartbroken-induced wrinkles
curl around his eyes and white teeth gnash between beautiful full lips.



I wrap my arms around his chest and feel for the long thin scars on his
back, scars put there by me when I was young and selfless. My thumb
brushes across the ripples and he grins through the tears, remembering
that night at the park, in the backseat of the blue Lincoln, shadows of
the trees dancing across my belly. Beautiful, white, perfect teeth in a
grin I will never see again.



We don’t have sex or make love just yet. We remember emotions. Every
sour word ever passed between us lies in the bed. We toss it back and
forth. What made those words slip over our tongues? What caused us to
separate in anger? How could we so easily tuck away our relationship -
this relationship - and pretend as though we could go on forever
without each other?



When I was young and selfless, he used to pull me against his chest and
surround me with his arms. I was helpless, completely dependent upon
the steel cage he built around me. Tonight, I pull him to my chest. His
breath fogs the metal rings in my nipples. He sobs. Without me, he
says, life is lonely.



But I know he is just like me. Without me isn’t lonely, just as without
him isn’t lonely. Finality hurts. Finality is a song you’ve heard but
only remember two words of the lyrics. You can’t explain it. You can’t
explain what you remember clearly enough so that another can help you
find it again. That last final kiss, the lips you know you’ll never
feel again, the wet pillowcase, the rush, the anger, the hate, the
absolute goodness of being out of control are why you look for it again
and again. You know that once the newness of the first lingering kiss
wears off, you’ll never feel those emotions again until you convince
yourself it’s the end.

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