The Silent Treatment.

It wasn’t the first time he came over. We were way past that point. I didn’t even bother to fix my hair anymore (but I still made sure my eyelashes were curled and had “nice” sweats on). His friend worked at Blockbuster so he always got free DVD and video game rentals. I forget what game he brought over that day, but he played for at least an hour straight.

He sat Indian style on my living room carpet with his back against the couch. I was so in love with him. And all I ever wanted to do was let him know. Instead, I grabbed a book and laid on the floor next to him carefully placing my head on his lap without ever blocking the television screen. Every so often, I’d lower my book and kiss the bottom of his chin. He’d smile, take one hand off the controller and squeeze my shoulder, then go back to cussing at the TV. And that’s when I knew I loved him.

I remember I would leave the door unlocked when I knew he was coming over, but was too comfy in bed to get up for him. I was watching one of those horrible talk shows that air when everyone should be at work or school. He walked in looking like New York in the summertime, and kneeled down at the side of the bed. I rolled over and greeted him resting my head in my hands. He grabbed my face and kissed me. Then, placed his hands on the back of my neck and kissed me again. It was the longest, most passionate yet non-sexual kiss I ever had. And by the time we were done, my heart was exploding.

I looked at his eyes. They were red, but I don’t remember him tasting like Swisher Sweets. I asked him what was wrong, but from the look on his face I could tell everything was alright. In fact, everything was great. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said while wiping his eyes. That’s when I knew it would be hard to ever let go.

It was a little past 1:30am when we got done fucking. Outside, the moon was bright enough to still be seen through his bedroom curtains. My head was on his naked chest with my arm strewn over his torso. One of my favorite things to do was trace his obliques. Sometimes, I’d stick my fingers in the waistline of his boxers and leave them there before stroking his dick some more. I loved his body.

His arm was around me, and he kept playing with my hair. Stroking my face. Caressing my shoulder. He kept doing all the normal things a man does to a woman he likes that just made him cum. I was exhausted, yet my heart wouldn’t beat at ease. He started talking about how much he liked me. How much he thought of me while he was at work. He told me he loved the way I smelled. And the fact I was so petite. Eyes heavy now, I barely responded. Finally, he shut up. Then kissed my forehead and sighed. That’s when I knew we were over.

Sometimes, it’s the silence that says so much. The moment a groom sees his bride for the very first time and it takes his breath away. Or the hush that falls upon a stadium full of people after the ball leaves the pitchers hand in the bottom of the 9th and the score is 9-8 in the last game of the World Series. When you’re too upset to even yell. Those crucial seconds after  someone tells you “I love you,” or “I cheated on you”. Sometimes, it’s the words that are never said that have the most meaning.

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