I met you a couple nights ago, on Thanksgiving night. I met you through Tindr. You urged me to sneak out, and bond with you. I felt lonely. It was difficult to relate to my family. Between the dry conversation and critical remarks, I could feel myself aching to leave.
I waited for you on the drive-way. It was cold, and I could feel myself shiver. I waited an hour, but then I saw the lights of your Volvo. I knew it was you, because you drove slow, as if you were looking for someone.
You approached me.”Hi” I said, my voice shaking. “Hi,” you responded. I could already smell the alcohol on your breathe. I ran my hand down your thigh and smiled. You looked up. I could see your pupils dilate. I knew how good it felt, and suddenly I felt thirsty. I initiated the kiss as I placed your hand on my bra.
We went back to your place. A very clean apartment. To me, it was also very dreamy. It was dreamy, because I knew I was just passing through. Like a ghost that was momentarily haunting a space until morning. The apartment was clean. You had a poster of Lana Del Rey. I liked that. I assumed you could relate to her lyrics that’s why a poster of her was up. But in retrospect, I think you probably appreciate her beauty the most.
I took my shirt off, “I feel so shy” I laughed. “You don’t look shy” you said. Your voice sounded a little smug and intoxicated. I didn’t mind. It was charming, in a stupid way. I ate up everything you told me. I bit your lip as you called me, “beautiful”. I lay closer to you, my body still cold from outside. We were shirtless. You rubbed your body closer to mine. I could feel your hard nipples against mine. It was so sensual. I wanted to make you feel good, good enough to love me. You left yellow-black bruises on my breasts.
Days later, I’m crying in the shower. Thinking to myself, “why did I feel things?” I cry as the hot water showers over me. I look into the shower head. “I hate you!” I scream. It’s an empty scream. Above all I feel lonely. Maybe the arms of strangers aren’t so sweet. It’s just saccharine. Fake. The bruises are still there, aching and desolate.