"Do you hate me?" he asked.
He was sitting next to me on the love seat. I had never wished more for a bigger couch.
"I love you." He whined. I hated it when he did that. I leaned further away from him and took a look at him. He wasn't that attractive. His nostrils flared too much. My friends and I long ago named him Raging Bull and I was beginning to wonder how he ever appeared attractive to me.
"You loathe me for it." I sighed.
"No, I love you and I hate hurting you." He whined.
"Then why hurt me?" I said casually.
Fact is, I was tired. I was tired of him following me all over the house as I brushed my teeth, as I wiped my ass, as I drifted about my 760sqft apartment just trying to...be. If I left, he would only invade my tranquility with texts and phone calls.
He touched my leg and I tensed. I didn't like his touch anymore. It was worse than a strangers. It was a touch I knew all to well but didn't want at all.
"I love you..." He pleaded.
"Good. Now leave." I said with a smirk. I was cold. I was colder than butt naked on ice. I had nothing left for him.
"Do you hate me?" He touched my face and turned it toward his. His eyes were pleading. His nostrils were yet more flared.
"Not answering!" I shouted like a child and covered my ears as I escaped him. I got up and began to walk to my "room" which was only feet away. There is no privacy in studios. I should have paid the extra $200 for a door.
He followed me across the room and became increasingly more demanding for my response.
"WHY DO YOU CARE?" I shouted. "Why do you care if I hate you?" I felt the knot. My throat was tight and the tears were about to fall.
"Because I don't want you to hate me." he warily replied.
"Of course!" I couldn't help but smile at the irony. He looked confused, which was nothing new at this point. I had stared at the same dumbfounded expression that was fixed on his face for the past 23 months. I took him by the hand and gently shoved him into my love seat. I think for a moment he thought I wanted to sleep with him one last time. His eyes had that flicker of excitement they always had when he knew I was going to make love to him. Only, I didn't love him anymore, so there wasn't much to make.
"I hate you." I lied. "I hate everything about you and I hope that you fail in everything you hope to achieve in life, you rotten bastard." I smiled big. It felt good to say what I wanted for a change. It felt good to abandon consequence and embrace the freedom of speech without filter.
23 months of censored conversation and emotion. I was completely over it.
The truth is that I didn't hate him. I didn't love him. I just didn't want him anymore. I had become about as interested in him as I was in the fly that the wind catapulted into my windshield while I was driving last week. I remember frowning and flipping on my wipers, smearing the memory of its life away within seconds. By the time I got to the gym, I had long forgotten about the nuisance massacre.
He reminded me of that fly. I didn't much care what came of him, I just wanted to be done with him.
I found it humorous that he had to know if I was hurt. He had to know if he caused damage. If I said he had, he would feel remorse and attempt to comfort me until he felt I felt better. This was the only way he would feel better.
Its interesting how although he wronged me, this is still about him. We need to make sure he feels better about treating me poorly. Selfishness is an art mastered by many. He was one of the gifted.
He put his head in his hands.
"I'm so sorry" he wept.
I let the bastard slobber into his palms.
It was time to take a shower. It was time for girls night out. It was time to call back that guy who gave me his number last week that I held onto for safekeeping. It was time to move on.
"You loathe me for it." I sighed.
"No, I love you and I hate hurting you." He whined.
"Then why hurt me?" I said casually.
Fact is, I was tired. I was tired of him following me all over the house as I brushed my teeth, as I wiped my ass, as I drifted about my 760sqft apartment just trying to...be. If I left, he would only invade my tranquility with texts and phone calls.
He touched my leg and I tensed. I didn't like his touch anymore. It was worse than a strangers. It was a touch I knew all to well but didn't want at all.
"I love you..." He pleaded.
"Good. Now leave." I said with a smirk. I was cold. I was colder than butt naked on ice. I had nothing left for him.
"Do you hate me?" He touched my face and turned it toward his. His eyes were pleading. His nostrils were yet more flared.
"Not answering!" I shouted like a child and covered my ears as I escaped him. I got up and began to walk to my "room" which was only feet away. There is no privacy in studios. I should have paid the extra $200 for a door.
He followed me across the room and became increasingly more demanding for my response.
"WHY DO YOU CARE?" I shouted. "Why do you care if I hate you?" I felt the knot. My throat was tight and the tears were about to fall.
"Because I don't want you to hate me." he warily replied.
"Of course!" I couldn't help but smile at the irony. He looked confused, which was nothing new at this point. I had stared at the same dumbfounded expression that was fixed on his face for the past 23 months. I took him by the hand and gently shoved him into my love seat. I think for a moment he thought I wanted to sleep with him one last time. His eyes had that flicker of excitement they always had when he knew I was going to make love to him. Only, I didn't love him anymore, so there wasn't much to make.
"I hate you." I lied. "I hate everything about you and I hope that you fail in everything you hope to achieve in life, you rotten bastard." I smiled big. It felt good to say what I wanted for a change. It felt good to abandon consequence and embrace the freedom of speech without filter.
23 months of censored conversation and emotion. I was completely over it.
The truth is that I didn't hate him. I didn't love him. I just didn't want him anymore. I had become about as interested in him as I was in the fly that the wind catapulted into my windshield while I was driving last week. I remember frowning and flipping on my wipers, smearing the memory of its life away within seconds. By the time I got to the gym, I had long forgotten about the nuisance massacre.
He reminded me of that fly. I didn't much care what came of him, I just wanted to be done with him.
I found it humorous that he had to know if I was hurt. He had to know if he caused damage. If I said he had, he would feel remorse and attempt to comfort me until he felt I felt better. This was the only way he would feel better.
Its interesting how although he wronged me, this is still about him. We need to make sure he feels better about treating me poorly. Selfishness is an art mastered by many. He was one of the gifted.
He put his head in his hands.
"I'm so sorry" he wept.
I let the bastard slobber into his palms.
It was time to take a shower. It was time for girls night out. It was time to call back that guy who gave me his number last week that I held onto for safekeeping. It was time to move on.
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