We’re sitting in the park, the way young people in love are supposed to. There may be ducks and breadcrumbs or wine and chequered blankets or even raindrops and tandem bikes. If there is, I don’t see them. Just me on a bench and you sitting next to me. The air seems newer than usual.
Later we have sex. That’s all there is to it. Like the word—short and sharp. No tender moments or lingering glances.
You say, We both know it’s useless to pretend it’s something more. And most likely I’ll be thinking of someone else.
You are very businesslike. You even give me a receipt when you’re done. You’re so sexy when you’re invoicing.
When I ask you about your life, you say you were born in a place with a hospital, grew up in a place with a family, were sent to a place with teachers, and then went to a place with money. You drive a Mercedes. I assume you have a job, although you never seem to work. You always put your arms around me before I can ask you anything you don’t want to answer.