"Well, what’s the matter, you want to talk about it?” he asked-which was something that surprised me at this time. Because back then, I didn’t recall him “caring” enough to want to “talk” about anything I was feeling-ever. Instead, we would just fuck about it. I replied:

“No, I just…I just don’t have anything to say anymore. I’m..I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry.”
He just lay there with his hands behind his head-contemplating something-synapses shooting all through his head. I could hear his thoughts thinking of all the right things to say, yet, each ran into the crevices of his mind like a brick wall.

“Umm. Well, is it alright if I stayed the night?” he asked.

“Sure. I don’t mind,” I replied-simply.

He responded with a lie, but hoping that I would say something romantic in response to it-and this whole nightmare in his head would go away:
“I won’t touch you. I won’t touch you. Alright?” he whispered-carefully. As if he was peeking over at me and about to take his hand and put it on me somewhere-anywhere. He just wanted to touch me-to feel me-to feel something from me.

With no emotion whatsoever and as if I wanted to cut all this romantic theme music off that I was hearing from his head, I simply replied, unfeeling but jovial-as if we were on two different rhythms:

“Alright.”

I could feel his heart fall to his back. It fell so heavy that it lay his entire body back down-flat on his back.
We lay there in the dark until we fell asleep; not saying one word to each other.

When morning came, he got up, got dressed and I sat up in the bed-just watching him. Reminiscing about how much I once loved him-hard. I was fighting with something inside of me that just did not allow me to go there with him anymore. His being a man-he probably felt nothing but rejection and anger, when little did he know, I was fighting for him: trying to get my mind, heart and body to agree to play-but they refused. They kept screaming from inside of me: “does not play well with exes.”

I could tell he was pissed as hell. Rather than the usual puckering from the pleasure and good times I once gave him, his lips were folded like a kid having been chastised by his parents and being dared to utter one word or even a sound from his mouth.

That was the most awkward twelve to fourteen hours of my experience with him since having once loved him, and something that I know he would never forget or forgive me for-I could tell. Because just like that spoiled, mad kid; with is lips folded tightly, he headed down the steps and let himself out of the door without even saying goodbye to me. If he did-it was damned sure under his breath and in between the noise of his feet making conversation with the steps on his way down and out the door, because I did not hear one whisper or word from him…”

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