you fuck him because it’s 1a.m. and you want to go back to sleep
he’s been pawing at you for nearly two hours, every now and then pressing himself forcefully against you so you’ll remember that he has an erection, but you remember, it’s not exactly like you can forget, it presses against you almost every time he leans to kiss you
and now it’s five minutes later and the erection is gone and he’s turned on to his side, one arm over you as if it was reassuring, and it would be if it was someone you actually had any amount of faith in, if it wasn’t someone who actively went out of his way to describe himself as troubled and reminding you seemingly every other sentence that he isn’t worth the time, as if that was a good thing, as if that was a thing that would make you like him more, as if self depreciation is something attractive, like a solid chin, which he does not have, or a good sense of humour, which it would probably hurt for him to learn he does not have
but you aren’t going to be the one to tell him any of this, in fact you promise yourself you’re never even going to see him again, you can imagine bumping in to him on the tube in two months time and ignoring his wave to just stare at a strangers armpit almost in your face
he’s only here through some sort of culmination of luck, late night bus fares and tequila rose, there isn’t a doubt that in the morning he’ll talk to you as if you’re vulnerable, there’s no doubt he’ll tell you that he’ll call again with a hint of looking down on you in his voice as if he was doing you a favour
but it isn’t the morning, it’s the night and he’s got his arm over you and you’re staring at your ceiling, when you were young there used to be a set of swirls that you could have sworn looked like the exact profile of sherlock holmes, so you search for it in a bedroom far removed from childhood.