You look hot, tonight.
I could feel the radiating warmth of his cheek and slight stubble on his chin as he leaned in against me. It had been months since he’d been so physically close to me. Together with the sweet words he had never bestowed on me before, I felt giddy. So much so that I ignored the distinct whiff of vodka on his breath.
We had our first kiss that night. In the dark. With my back against a pillar and his doughy body pushed up against mine. Gyrating bodies, swirling against the blaring music, bumped into us as we finally crossed that line.
His lips were dry and his technique was sloppy. His tongue left a trail of slobber over my neck as his hands, rough and calloused, pawed against my thighs. It wasn’t what I expected. The cockiness and sexual prowess he constantly boasted about didn’t translate into an actual skill (maybe it was the booze). But I didn’t care.
I still burned for him. To me, in my mind, that was still our special moment. Finally, I felt alive. But when the lights came on, he cooled. Considerably.
My questions were met with curt replies. The attention I gave him drew dismissive glances. And my texts—crafted with thought and sentiment—were left unanswered. I felt empty and foolish. Not knowing how to be…until yesterday.
Hey, want to go clubbing?
This time, he answered.
And then, to feel something, I went to burn again.