08-21-03 - 9:01 a.m.
just like old times; his truck in the driveway, his footsteps on the astroturf, his key in the lock. he bends to kiss me and says, i'm as nervous as the first time. we pick up where we left off in the car last week; verbal chess that goes nowhere because this awful, addictive love will never be resolved. we fumble with desire on the sofa, i can feel hesitation in my heart, in his hands. when he produces a condom, it's like a sharp slap in the face. ice water to the soul.
i don't know who you've been with, he says, and i can't afford to take something home.
i laugh raggedly, stung, thinking of the 'boy; his physical problems, his fear of intimacy. revealing his sexual failings could set things straight, but i'm suddenly protective of our short, sweet time together. i refuse to betray him.
live with it or leave, i tell him, and rather than lose me again, he surrenders. the condom is forgotten, and the game continues.
checkmate.