I had no idea it would be like this. If I had known, I wouldn’t have answered the advert. I wouldn’t have clenched my fist in a wodge of your hair and pulled your head back to sink my teeth into your throat. I didn’t know you would take things so seriously. I didn’t know how deeply I would come to care. Here at the now, when it is all nearly over, amidst the rubble of a city and a hundred thousand souls, smelling the smoke that wafts through the breeze, I begin to wonder if it was worth it. I won’t have long to ponder. I know that the missiles are on their way. I face the direction I believe they’ll come from.
Making love to you was like setting myself on fire. I remember you looked at me, dark eyes blazing and lancing into my own, as you said “Yes,” and then, “There,” and then, “Now.” Everything after was little more than a drawn-out letdown. But there were moments in the beginning when I thought I was going to self-immolate.
Sometimes I look through the paper to see if there are any articles about you. Sometimes there are. I scan them with a smirking, sneering sort of contempt for the author, who cannot hope to frame you in their mind like I can.
I remember you told me that you could make me bleed like nothing else could, the blood welling up through the skin and seeping out of my pores with no wound inflicted. I was the rotting fruit that shows a lush and pristine exterior but sits in a pool of its own putrescence. At the time, I didn’t give you the credit you perhaps deserved, and I’m not about to give you the satisfaction at this late hour.
I honor you. I acknowledge you. I hate you. I fear you. You make me sick. You make me want to die. I can’t live without you. You are the tension that winds my watch, the floating cigar butt in my mocha latte, the steel-jawed trap that snaps my wrist. I open your car door when we go out. I will never hurt you. How could I?
The missiles are drawing nearer, and I imagine I can see the approaching specks. Soon enough, I can make them out for certain. I glance at my watch, wanting for some perverse reason to know what time the end is to come. My watch has stopped. I frown, perplexed, and look back up at the approaching missiles. They turn into a basket of kittens which lands at my feet with a gentle plop, and I feel silly.