final words.

The last words we had were not kind.

You’re replaceable, I said.  Unfortunately for you, I’m not.

The fact that I’d nearly cashed an entire bottle of Peruvian didn’t matter; the facts remained the same.  I’d find someone to keep my bed warm, my body company.  He’d go on to be miserable, wondering why she couldn’t suck a dick like I could.

But that was beside the point.  And if it was in fact beside, than what was the point, really?

I’m not often uncertain.  Or rather, I simply choose not to think about things that are uncertain, as their complexities happen to be things I can’t be bothered with.  Some would say that’s self-serving; I say, nothing more than self-preservation.  What others don’t agree with can’t be helped.

I knew it wouldn’t last the first time we fucked.

He was one of those “too easily pleased” types, the kind that amuse me the first couple go-rounds with how easy it is, but that bore me in the long-term.  A good visual was his primary source of stimulation, which, again, means “too easy.”  A slow disrobing, a quick couple minutes of striptease and he was all mine, his hands all over, greedy self unable to wait.

The good: I didn’t have to do much to please him; a few strokes, a couple touches and he was finished.

The bad: I was never fucking satisfied with his simplistic approach to sex.  Somewhere he got the idea that the loud noises emanating from his throat and several repetitive, furious pumps were sufficient enough to turn me on, let alone get me off.

It was kind of like romping with a teenager – not that I know, because that’s something I’d never do, Christ – but it had that innocent, easygoing, even playful feel to it.  Suffice it to say that it was not enough to even hint at a regular relationship, let alone function as a sexual relationship.

And the truth is, I felt bad for him.  When we split, or rather, when I told him I was splitting with him, I was quite honest about things.

My first mistake: I did it in private.

Why? He had asked.  But why?

I started on about how we’re completely different types (we were, quite obviously; he had an extremely unattractive proclivity for becoming too clingy in a matter of weeks, after all), how I wasn’t ready for a relationship (and I wasn’t, at least not with him), and that he could find someone better suited (like a good, take-home-to-mother, settle-down-and-have-four-kids-with type of girl).

Instead of responding in the adult way, a polite nod and calm demeanor, all of that shit, he decides to throw a fit.  And not a manly fit by any means, like throwing lamps and punching holes in the walls, but a two-year-old fit, complete with tears and so much blubbering I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.

The whining was too much for me, and I snapped.

Grow the fuck up, I said.  I am being honest with you.  I know it’s not pleasant, but at least I’m telling you the truth.

Instead of getting the hint, grabbing his shit, and leaving, he proceeded to launch what was for him a full-scale attack.

You’re such a fucking bitch, he spat.  You’re never going to end up with anyone because you’re so damn cold.  The only thing you’re good for is a fuck.

While I can understand why some may see it that way, it still set me off, hence the “you’re replaceable, I’m not” line, which made him give me one last look of disgust before throwing on his t-shirt, grabbing his dinner jacket, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket and stomping out the door.

I will be the first to admit that I’ve welcomed criticism for what you may perceive as coldness on my part.  That’s understandable.  But I think once you realize that we are not born cold, you’ll know that the coldness is not of my essential being.  Rather, it’s a finely honed defense mechanism, a set of reactions that cause other reactions, perhaps triggered so often that it seems normal.

My second mistake: I thought about it.

After the sound of his footfall in the hallway ceased, I sat on the bed, letting my body deflate.  With a long exhale, I slipped off my heels and glanced at the telephone for the telltale blinking light, indicating a message at the front desk awaiting me.  Nothing.

I looked around the room, searching for any sign of himself he may have left behind, a reason to come back, an excuse to weasel back into my life.  Nothing.

I lit a cigarette, letting the raspy air fill my lungs, a reward for showing him the door early.  I felt relief, as I so often had before, but there was something else.  A sadness, a tinge of loneliness; a sort of longing for the lavishing of affection (even though it bordered on the cliché at times).

You’re alone, I thought to myself.  Alone.  Alone.  Alone.  The cigarette smoke wasn’t offering me the same pleasure anymore – instead, it felt like a burning, a rasping, exacerbating all edges of hollowness in my chest.  I took a deep drag to calm myself, to quell the thoughts, and –

The light.

The light on my room phone was blinking.  I exhaled slowly, delicately.

I slowly ran my fingers along the receiver, feeling the electrical current pulling me from the opposite end.  I felt the excitement tugging at my stomach as I lifted the phone from its cradle, then secured it snugly between my bare shoulder and ear.

Ring, ring.  Ring, ring. I waited.  Chance, chance.  Chance, chance.

As the maître-de’s voice came on the line, I stubbed out my cigarette quickly, hands shaking, heart in flight.

Chance.  It seemed to have found me again.

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~ by thecasualtychronicles on March 3, 2010.

One Response to “final words.”

  1. Amazing! I think I love you 🙂

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