Neglection

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is the lack of warmth and weight in the bed next to me. I roll over to find that, as expected, no one's there. A faint clicking sound draws my attention to the other side of the room. Matt is already up, dressed and at his laptop. Another one of those "important jobs" no doubt.

"Hey, come back to bed," I say to him blearily.

"Can't. I've got a job to finish up." It's always like this. We'll have a night of ardent sex and fall asleep with our sweaty limbs intertwined; but there's no "morning after." No waking up to Matt spooning me from behind and placing butterfly kisses along my neck and shoulders. No rolling out of bed and stumbling into the shower together before going down to breakfast. There hadn’t been any of that since Wammy’s; since I’d left Matt there.

I know that isn’t Matt’s problem, though. He knew that one day I would have to leave, that he wouldn’t be coming with me. He’d had plenty of time to prepare.

Maybe I’m just not attractive anymore. That’s what I’ve been thinking as of late. I used to be beautiful; or so I was told. But the last time I’d bothered looking at myself in a mirror I barely recognized myself. My blond hair was dull. My eyes were no longer the bright sapphire they once were, but instead a cold gray-ish blue. Bones were poking out making me look emaciated. I could see dried come caking the insides of my thighs. In short, I looked like a washed-out prostitute.

“Whatever,” I tell Matt. I’ve over-stayed my welcome. He makes that clear to me. So I go wash off and get dressed. And when I head off to work, I tell myself I won’t return tonight. But I will. I always do.