For Posterity.

I sat in my chair. At least I called it that to anyone who ever tried
to sit there. But it wasn't mine, it's his. It is certainly an awful
remnant from the eighties, surely rescued from somebody's basement and
shoved in the corner of that decrepit house to fill a void. It's faux
velvet texture reminded of a dress I wore to a Christmas concert in
fifth grade. He fucked me in that chair once. But he never calls it
that. I sometimes call it that, but only when I'm drunk or feeling
especially bold. In fact, that house is full of fucking all the time,
something the thin walls and rotting floor boards make certain you are
sure of it. And that's fine, because life is about peace, love, and
happiness.

I sat there with mascara from the day before creeping away from the
corners of my eyes, my hair tangled, my white dress stained with
something pinkish. Flesh spilling from the wrong parts, violating the
eyes of any onlookers. I probably smelled too. I needed to go home but
I also needed him. And he must have needed me because he took my hand
in a familiar way and we walked towards his room. He asked me if I'd
like to come in as if I'd actually say no. He untied the piece of the
dress that was responsible for keeping it attached to my body. The
straps slowly fell from my shoulders and the fabric slid down my body,
making a surprisingly loud thump as it hit the wood planked floor.

I stood there naked, my back against a mirror mounted on the wall
behind me. He just stared, not in a rude way but in a curious way,
kind of the way a child might look at the shelves in Toys R' Us. There
might have been a point in time where I would have felt exposed and
violated, maybe even self conscious. But this felt strangely okay,
even good. We stood there like that for a while. My weight shifted to
my left leg, my hip jutting out like an over zealous model. Except not
modeling anything. He walked slowly towards me. He put his arms around
me, letting his hands drop to my ass. A sigh escaped from his parted
lips as me pulled me closer. I reached my arms around his neck and we
stood there like that for a long time. A kind of desperate embrace
which was broken as he guided me towards the bed, pushing me
backwards. Nervous and untrusting, I broke from his gaze to see the
floor behind me as my feet clumsily moved across it.

I left hours later, after we had become sick of each other. As soon as
I was out the door I felt alone in this world. I looked at the streets
and thing shining sun and didn't see people or cars, I saw emptiness.
Hoping this would pass, I climbed into my car. But as I drove away,
his house fading in my rear view mirror, the huge window jutting from
the front of his room, the same one we had looked out of together so
many times, was like a hole from which my life and my passion seeped
out.

To keep from losing it all, I've been pouring what's left over onto
canvases filled with unoriginal brush strokes and filling my brains
with love stories belonging to other people. It passes the time, it
calms the panic, and it silences the questions that I don't want to
bother with. Never mind, I wonder if my acute need for him is directly
related to his departure. It is and that's what makes it funny. If he
was going to be around indefinitely, I'd be done with him by now, just
like I was with all the others.