Last Hurrah

By: Susanne Krenz

with thanks to C. and M.

CW: This piece contains descriptions of sex

I wake up as the little spoon, a strange arm draped across my torso. My brain is foggy and the dim light isn’t helping. It’s hard to judge what time of day it is. Those thick crimson curtains are working hard to keep the sun at bay. I briefly consider reaching for my phone, but my mind and limbs don’t yet connect.

I’m being hugged from behind. There’s a hand attached to the strange arm and it starts to wander across my body, heading straight for my nipples. An erection is pressing against my butt. I push back. It feels familiar, almost tender. For a few drowsy seconds, I think I’m in bed with someone who loves me, but then I realise where I am. My heart sinks.

You turn me over and get on top of me. I can barely look at you. The last thing I want is to make eye contact. It’s all so wrong, which must be why I’m wet already. My mouth, by contrast, is dry as cardboard. I try to lick my lips, but my tongue flops around like a fish on dry land.

Our bodies rubbing against each other, you start moaning in my ear. My hands are caressing your back. Our expressions and movements are just shadows of what they used to be, pretend-intimate and empty. Somewhere along the way, we broke something. Maybe we’ll regret it someday.

“Baby, baby, my baby.” Your hot breath hits the side of my face.

Stop, I think. Stop right there.

“No”, I say, squirming under you. “We’re not doing that again.”

Your face is pressed up against mine. I can feel you smiling.

“Then who are you—my bitch?”

Sure, I’ll be your bitch. At least it hurts less than being your baby.

I turn my head to the side to escape your kiss. Your arm is cutting off my windpipe.

“I don’t like you,” I whimper. “You’re evil.”

“But you like my cock?”

You thrust harder. It’s not really a question.

“It’s great,” I moan.

Sweat pools on your forehead and starts dripping into my eyes.

“Bitch,” you grunt, driving into me. “Who fucks you better, him or me?”

I started sleeping with your best friend when we stopped seeing each other. To spite you, to stay close to you? I don’t even know. I’m more attracted to you physically, but I like him better. He’s a few years older than you and wears his heart on his sleeve. I know he likes to think of himself as a player, but he’s not fooling me. He can’t control himself like you can. He’s impatient and impulsive, like me. I almost feel that I have to protect him. Someone should probably protect him from you.

I let you come inside me and watch you wipe yourself off with a towel. I want to get up and pee, but there’s no telling where my clothes are, and we aren’t alone in the flat. Feeling trapped, I lie back down. We listen to music on my phone. You leave it up to me to tiptoe around tainted memories. I skip every song that’s too emotional, wistful, or lovey-dovey. There’s not a whole lot left.

“Do you miss me sometimes?” you ask, suddenly.

I sit up and turn to face you. “Not anymore.”

You’re stroking my thigh, eyes closed, smiling. We don’t talk much. We used to have so much to chat and laugh about, but now I can’t think of anything to say. 

Then the song ends, and the music stops.

“Are you watching me?”

The silence cracks like an icy lake surface.

“No,” I say, shutting my eyes. “I have my eyes closed, too.”

“If you’re watching me sleep, it means you love me.”

I want to scream. How dare you care so little? I hate these fucking games we play. It’s like we’re competing whose heart is the stoniest. With me in your bed, it’s looking like you’re in the lead. But if you’re the winner and your friend is the loser, what does that make me?

“Don’t mention that I was with you, okay? He’s already jealous enough.”

Your eyes are still closed. You’re still smiling.

“I know.”

You stop stroking my leg. It seems you’ve fallen asleep. I fish for my phone.

“Get outtt!!! And meet me for coffee,” my friend’s text reads. It’s just what I need to start the dreaded gathering of the clothes.

“Stay.” Bleary-eyed, you’re watching me fumble for my panties behind the bed.

I can’t. I won’t.

My friend is right.

Last summer was a sequence of pure mania, punctured by gut-wrenching, you-shaped comedowns. I cried so hard I acquired a permanent twitch in my eye. I don't even know where the barrage of tears came from—heartache, or anger, or just pure exhaustion? It’s November now and I'm further than ever from an answer.

Finally dressed, I close my bag and wrap my headphones around my neck.

“Looks like I’ve got everything.”

“I want you to forget something,” you mumble, half-convinced, “so that you’ll come back.”

I smile but don’t say a thing. It’s no use. I won’t be coming back.

You walk me to the door. We hug awkwardly. Then I step into the hallway. You prop yourself up on the doorframe, skinny and shirtless, like an overgrown boy. 

“Take care of yourself,” you say.

I pull away from you and head towards the staircase.

I think it’s me who won, this time.

Only that no one is applauding.