Sickening

My skin tingled as it cooled. He stood beside my bed, his shadow falling across my midsection as he shrugged into the shirt I’d hastily snatched from his body hours ago. “This isn’t working out,” he said. “This?” “Yeah,” he replied, “this. Us. We. It’s not working for me anymore.” I grunted, choosing not to speak than to spew the acidic words I was feeling. I sat up, pulling the sheet to cover my bare breasts. Some part of me would not allow me to be dismissed from his life while lying naked in the afterglow he’d created. I felt the warmth draining out of me. I climbed out of the bed, both irate and unsure of what to do now that I stood before him. Our juices trickled down my thighs, causing the sheet to stick to the intimate crevices he’d so ardently caressed moments before. A thrill ran down my spine, my attraction to him nearly overpowering my growing disgust. “What is it that suddenly isn’t working, Brian?” His gaze went blank, as it always did when he was confronted. His face was absolutely still; he didn’t attempt to look like he was thinking of an answer. He just shook his head and turned away. I felt something inside me deflate. Suddenly I felt wretched and cheap. I imagined this moment painted. A woman, clutching a sheet to her breasts, standing in the shadow of a man who no longer wanted her. Her face dejected as he gave her his back. Her shoulders trembling in an effort not to slump. The woman I imagined was me, and she was sickening.