Damian’s and my
last night before it all crumbled, went south, went to hell. We played dress-up
that night, made a thing of it. I didn’t want to ask what the excuse was at
home, but I did. I did it pretty much right when he picked me up. “So,” I said,
“what does Joyce think you’re up to tonight?”
He was in the
middle of kissing me. Stiffened. Pulled away. Straightened. “Why do you care?”
“Because I do.
Because I should.”
“No, you shouldn’t.
It’s none of your business. Why would you possibly care what I tell her?”
Damian. He could
be such an asshole. Just dig in his heels, look at you with that fuck you, I’ll
do what I want glare. It wasn’t his fault that I’d fallen in love with him,
was it? He didn’t do anything wrong. He just had that hair and those eyes and
those dimples and that smile and that cock, that goddamned thing of
beauty that offered so much pleasure. I found everything about Damian beautiful,
but looking back on it, I’m not sure if it was his presence or his void that I
found most attractive. Sometimes we love people because they’re more absent
than anything. More empty than not. Something like that.
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