You look over and see this beautiful young face looking back at you, large eyes still filled with hope and wonder and post coital reverence. And for a minute the unending trainwreck of life pauses as she rests her perfect face on your chest and the cosmic howl, the constant white noise of the universe howling in agony, stutters and you let out one tired sigh of content.
Then she plays your favorite Mulligan Brothers song and gets up to go pee. She puts on those cute little black panties you drunkenly tore off what felt like five minutes ago but the angry red light coming from her night stand says was 3 hours. You try not to stare, but get distracted watching the weary silver moonlight cast shadows over her every perfect curve. She slips into one of your shirts which are comically oversized on her and she catches you watching and strikes this play-sexy pose, pulling on the hem to draw it tight against her breasts and belly. It's too fucking adorable so you sit up and pull her back over and kiss her just a little too long and a little too hard.
Finally she steps out of the room and the trainwreck snaps back into violent motion, now angry for being involuntarily paused. You're buffeted with all the anger and the fear and the sadness and self loathing from before, but also something new and shiney and within focus. This white hot molten core of insecurity, knowing life is already so hard to deal with, even without love. Without the stress of providing not just for yourself but for a whole other human being. Possibly more, if you have kids. And not just financially, but emotionally. Better wrap up those emotions a little tighter you walking sack of shit, because women don't like their men weak and if she knew the dumb shit in your head all day...
She comes back and crawls into bed and snuggles up next to you and fuck it feels like home, but not your real home, like the way home is supposed to feel. Her skin is hot and soft against yours, from her nipples tickling the hair on your chest to her leg she tangles up with yours. And then a little piece of you wants to cry. Because it feels so good, and because you know this won't last. Can't, though. Men don't cry. Suck it up, pussy.
She kisses your chest and you get a waft of her hair that still smells like apples or vanilla or whatever mixed with little traces of smoke from the bar and sweat from what you did to her. She whispers "I love you", but quiet enough she thinks you don't hear, and it breaks your heart. Because you love her too but you know you've already corrupted her with your cynical hate filled nonsense. You're the cigarette smoke and sex-sweat to her Apple smelling hair. You're cancer. And this perfect moment will some day just be a bittersweet memory you'll have with several different faces and even if you truly love each one- which you do- it'll be small consolation when you inevitably walk away.
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