This is what I remember:

This is what I remember:

First, nervous fumbling in the front seat of a car in the parking lot in the dark.

Then, the steady rise and fall of our breath and his lips and his hands and what I wanted them to do.

And surreptitious touching when we were supposed to behave but needed to feel the other’s skin.

That’s all I want to remember. It is too painful to think about everything else. The things I believed were real. The words exchanged, the laughter, the little nods of encouragement… and he said “love” once? No, not that.

Because the only thing about it that was real was his skin and his lips and his hands and the want I felt when I looked at him. That was true. I do not want to remember anything else.

Author's note: I guess some of these are just going to be little blurbs of words and memories. This is autobiographical. The one before this was not. I won't tell you what's true or not anymore. I'll let you sort that out for yourself.

The Night I Finally Left You: A Memory

Blood from my nose dripped onto the concrete through my fingers and you stood there with clenched fists. I would have marveled at it if I wasn’t so scared that you were going to swing again.

Your eyes were filled with an anger I had never seen—from anyone. So I backed away, taking small, careful steps as if you were some kind of wild animal. Your breath came heavy, mine in shuttering gasps.

Everything screamed predator and prey.

There was a pain exploding through my head, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. I was even ready to run, though I knew that I’d never outrun you.

Suddenly, you dropped to your knees, unclenched your fists and began to wail. You still reminded me of a wild animal, and that is why I did not move to comfort you. I could not believe that this was remorse. I could believe it was a trap, but not remorse.

I finally got the nerve to turn my back and get into my car. I finally got the nerve to leave you on the ground of the parking lot.

We didn’t speak the next day, or the day after that. You never apologized, and I never tried to get you to do it. A predator does not apologize to its prey. The prey does not want an apology. It just wants to get away; it just wants to live.