You don’t love him

You don’t love him. At least, this is what you tell yourself as you drift off to sleep after a thirty minute fuck. If you loved him, you would have cum. If you loved him, you would let him fuck you with the lights on. You don’t, so you don’t. After nine years, fifty-six countries, and two affairs, it’s a wonder why he hasn’t left, but he hasn’t. Instead, your head is resting on his chest on a bed in a hut on an island off the coast of Malaysia. He won’t leave you because you hold a promise of a future, a family, a foundation for a fantasy—not that he has said any of this to you.

The preen-up will be over in another year or so, and that’s when you plan to pack your bags and never look back. But why leave? You don’t have anywhere in particular to go, and you don’t have any family or friends to see. Do you return to a city in a country you’re familiar with and know the streets by heart? Or try to establish roots somewhere else? You don’t have any remarkable skills, but blond hair and blue eyes will get you almost anywhere nowadays. Besides, with a cool two-hundred and fifty-six million dollars, you could go anywhere in the third world. Maybe take on a lover, or two, or four. Why not? You’ve wasted most of your youth fucking a man that thought your clit had too many turns like a rubrics cube and when you found someone who could handle it just right, you suddenly moved. You’re not sure if he ever found out, but you’re also not particularly interested in asking. Some things are better left unsaid.

How would he take it? Did he think that after ten years you’d change your mind and fall in love and say yes to numerous children he asked for? Four girls and three boys? Or maybe it was four boys and three girls? It’s been a while since he’s brought it up. He knows better than to ask anymore. Would they look more like you or him? Not that the children would be attractive, your genes could only cover up so much.

Time passes, and your mind starts to quiet itself, and you can hear the waves lap at the sand and the wind caress the leaves of trees. Maybe you won’t leave him. It hasn’t been a particularly hard or long life. And who knows, maybe you do love him after all.

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