What He Didn’t Know About You

At the root of everything we did was sex. Not love. Not dancing. When she let that disgusting junkie fuck her in the bathroom at the Chan Shin opening—while I was busy shooting pictures of the crowd that repulsed me—I didn’t really care. Not in principle.

Still, I beat Sina bloody in the parking lot when she told me, her face bright with amusement. With every hit, every kick, his face came to me: him mounting her like an animal, with no idea about her dreams or her longing. That she liked three sugars in her coffee. That she grunted like a little pig when something funny came on TV. That she wore pink underwear when she had her period. The fucker had no idea about any of that when he pinned her against the wall and drove himself into her again and again. And he couldn’t have cared less.

When they finally pulled me away from you, you were on the dark concrete, gasping and crying. Blood moved in bright lines down your beautiful body. You stood and looked at me the way a mother looks at a son who’s done something stupid but unbearably sweet.

That night, lying together in bed, passing a joint back and forth while I kissed your wounds: You love me, don’t you? you asked. What makes you think that? Because you were jealous. Because I fucked Cosby in the bathroom. You giggled, pleased with yourself. I hate you, I said, turned my back, and went to sleep.

I woke the next morning to your laptop keys. I blinked and found you sitting on the floor in your white nightgown, and knelt behind you. The rage came up fast—you were chatting with Cosby, first thing in the morning. I grabbed the MacBook and threw it out the window. Like a frisbee. You looked at me, puzzled, kissed me on the cheek, and made us scrambled eggs with bacon. Buy a new one, you said. I want to listen to music.