text: Here it was again, the routine I knew all too well. Opening my eyes with last night’s makeup weighing heavy on my skin, an unfamiliar body next to mine. Pounding headache, dark sheets and a room I don’t recognize. I rise, quietly gathering the clothes from the floor that were strewn every direction last night. We were in a hurry, I suppose. He was, at least. It’s a morning I know well. Pull on the jeans, find the keys. Slide the boots back on, wiggle into the top you wrestled on before you left for the bar last night and let yourself out. Don’t forget to lock the door behind you. Once I could enjoy this for what it was. A place to end the night, somewhere to go once the club turned the lights on. At its simplest, a physical experience... and one I was able to get as easily as I could snap my fingers. And I really did know how to snap my fingers. It’s different now, though. I don't know why. Solace I once found in the warm touch of that night’s choice and the liberation of being free has long disappeared and now, all I leave with is the thoughts in my head and, if I’m lucky, a new t-shirt. And it’s always the same. I wish I could understand her- the girl who, last night, was so determined to do this. So earnestly excited to go there, to see him. Isn’t it strange? I don’t even know her now. I don’t. But really, maybe I do. Maybe she’s just me, uninhibited. Disregarding the blunt reality of the situation and hoping for the best. Hoping that maybe this time, she’ll be wanted for more than just the physical, more than a scramble of numbers to text when his bed feels a little too big. Because when that text comes in and the club is empty and the lights are turning on and the air outside is cold, she gets ahead of herself. Because this time, she thinks, maybe he’ll really think she’s great. Maybe he’ll think she’s funny and cute and smart and maybe, even, he’ll want to see her again. And, you know, maybe next time it’ll be before 3 am. Maybe next time he’ll worry about her enough to call her an Uber. Maybe, she hopes, she’ll be held. Really held. And held as herself- not just as a warm body to end the night next to. But I... I know better. I do. I know that you leave before he wakes up, and don’t make a sound. And you don’t care about leaving early, even if it’s just below freezing and starting to snow. And you don’t care about the fact that he ripped your favorite top a little bit and bit your lip a little too hard. Because, well, you got what you wanted. Right? You got the feeling that you were chasing, didn’t you? Didn’t you? This was what you wanted. Because you know, he looked at you like you were the world last night. He looked at you like you were really special. You were the one he texted. Right? Isn’t that what you wanted? To feel special? Just for a minute, to feel... wanted? Because he wanted you. He did. He really, really wanted you to come over, he wanted to see you. So you did. You went, you saw him. And you arrive. We chat as we walk down the stairs to his room. He doesn’t seem too interested in conversation tonight. The lock clicks. Twenty minutes pass. He hits the pillow. Turns, faces the wall, and pulls the covers towards him. Falls asleep. I didn’t know people could fall asleep that fast. I sure can’t.