Blood and Sex
Everything we did came down to sex, basically. Not love, not dancing or anything else. When she let some junkie screw her in the bathroom at the Chan Shin opening, I was busy taking photos of the crowd—people I despised—and I told myself it didn’t bother me.
I beat her bloody in the parking lot. Every punch, every kick brought his face into sharp focus, this animal forcing himself into her, knowing nothing about her. Not that she took three sugars in her coffee. Not that she grunted like a little pig when something funny came on TV. Not the pink underwear she wore during her period. He had no fucking idea and wouldn’t have cared anyway. Just kept ramming himself into her against the wall, over and over.
When they finally pulled me off, you were gasping and crying on the dark concrete. Blood gleaming down your beautiful body. You stood up and looked at me the way a mother watches her son do something stupid and impossibly sweet.
You love me, don’t you,
you said that night in bed, passing a joint back and forth while I kissed your bruises. What makes you think that,
I said. Because you got jealous. Because I fucked Cosby in the bathroom.
You laughed. I hate you,
I said, and turned away to sleep.
I woke to your fingers clicking on the laptop. You were sitting on the floor in your white nightgown. I knelt behind you and the rage was instant—you were chatting with Cosby at dawn. I grabbed the MacBook and threw it out the window like a frisbee. You just stared at me, confused, kissed my cheek, and went to make eggs and bacon. Buy a new one. I want to listen to music.