Friday Night Story

One Last Time

The night air is cool and heavy with moisture, and I pull my coat into myself. The guards are stony and expressionless, and don’t even glance in my direction, but I nod to them as I pass through their wrought iron gate.

I’ve been coming too often since she left me; I feel pathetic and small, and my knees smack together as I climb down to her. I knock, but of course she doesn’t answer, so I let myself in. She’s alone, in the same, silky dress she wore last time, like she knew I was coming.

She doesn’t look at me, and we don’t speak. She doesn’t move, but her body yields to mine. She doesn’t kiss me back, but I’ve gotten used to that. I try to remove her dress, but she resists by staying limp; I content myself to roll it down to her ribs, and push her skirt up. The sounds of wood creaking echo; she lies still, but I think I hear a little moan escape her lips.

I would stay if she asked; I would lay here forever if she’d only put her arm around me. But she can’t. Her eyes are closed, and I lay her head back against the pillow, and roll the dress back up, and put her skirt back down.

I stare at her through her wooden frame, but she doesn’t even mouth the word “goodbye,” and I close the lid.

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