Fingering my glass, I stared at the juice inside of it. Any other night it would have been filled with the stench of vodka and juice. I watched the steam rise across the coffee table as the cup of java began losing its warmth. I sat on the snow white couch and all I did was stare.

If I have to begin this now, I had better begin at the very beginning. The beginning of everything, the beginning of my world. The beginning to the end. The beginning of that wishy-washy look that appeared on my face all the time.








Here he was, sitting near me, touching me, rubbing his fingers, his hands all over me. I can't pay attention to him anymore. He smiles at me. He says he loves me.

"I love you," He'd say. And I'd nod in acknowledgement.

It was the first time he told me he loved me, and it wasn't the last. The first time he said it, I hadn't thought anything of it. His words were so empty in my mind and his taste was so salty.

The second time he'd executed his 'I love you' into my system, it became easier to turn away. It became easier to be numb to his constant touch. He'd slide his silky hands all over me, kissing me like he wanted me, like he wanted to taste my skin, like he wanted to swallow me.

At nights, we'd sit together in front of the fire, sitting on this snow white couch, with a glass of water sitting on the coffee table for each of us, and a look of nothing in our eyes. He'd run his fingers through my hair, kiss my neck, rub my shoulders, let his hands roam wherever he wanted.

And I sat, with my eyes closed, trembling. Half wishing he'd stop, half wishing he'd just say goodbye. But he never did. It was like this for awhile now, every night it was like this. And late at night, he'd just roll over and say, "I love you."

And I would pretend the sleep that overcame me was too strong for me to hear. And in the darkness he'd whisper, "I love you, I love you." He'd kiss my back, leaving a trail, and never, never would I will myself to open my eyes.

Not at night at least. It was so much easier during the day. During the day, I could at least seem preoccupied with other things. Like laundry. Or booking planes. Or claiming I had an appearance to make elsewhere. But the night, the night, left me naked. I couldn't lie in the night and that was why I despised it. I despised it when Justin came around to kiss me, to leave his salty taste in my mouth, to say "I love you" with barely any effort. I despised it when he'd leave his kisses everywhere, like his socks. I despised it when he touched my thigh and rubbed it with absolution. And under my breath, I'd curse him for making me tremble, for making me close my eyes to him.

And fuck, when he asked me if I loved him too, he used his voice of innocence, the one that was stripped of all want, but full of need. And fuck, I hated that. How he could simply disguise himself behind emotion that was so easily provoked.

And I said nothing. And I heard him murmur "I love you." And his questions remained in his touch, in his kiss, in his fucking eyes. And damn him for making me look into his fucking eyes.

And I didn't have an answer most of the time. It was just a look in a different direction or a change of the subject.

And shit, I don't even know why I stayed with him. Not even constant calls from Chris could sway me another way.

Suddenly, as if he'd read my thoughts, the phone rang.

"Why do you even bother with his crap. With all this love, fuck, not even love, with all this shit." It was Chris.

"Are you calling this shit?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. When are you going to tell him to stop fucking around?"

"How do you know he's fucking with me, Chris?"

"It's exactly how you know."

Silence. I heard myself clicking the line shut. And just like that, it was easy to push him away. To push away everything he said. Even though he was telling the goddamned truth. But it was always this easy, pulling the phone out of its socket, shutting the door, closing my eyes.

The twelfth time Justin told me he loved me, I couldn't even look at him anymore. It had reduced me to that.

"I love you." But there was nothing. I felt nothing. I felt nothing but the kiss that he registered soon after. And when he kissed my cheek, I wanted to brush away his smell, I wanted to push his hot breath away from my neck. But I didn't. I just shut my eyes and tried not to smell him.

The next morning, when he had already left, I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the pile of laundry, the pile of his laundry that I had done for him. Taking a sip of my water, I checked the clock that hung loosely from the wall. 12:07. I had been sitting here for 4 hours, staring at his fucking laundry.

A shrill ring had interrupted the staring contest between Justin's shirts and myself. The phone sat in the corner of my eye, ringing with anger.

I picked it up.

It was Chris. Again. For the 7th time. I didn't even need to answer the phone to hear his words. But I did anyways.

"Chris." I murmured his name listlessly as I picked away at a brownie. One of those fudge brownies chocked with nuts. These were Justin's brownies. His favorite kind, the kind I made for him just because he loved the taste of chocolate. I hated chocolate.

"You have to say something."

"Say what?"

"Say anything. When's the last time he heard your voice?"

I thought for awhile. I fingered the little cord and I thought.

I couldn't recall. I murmured an excuse to slip away and hung up the phone.








The 37th time Justin told me he loved me, Vivaldi's Four Seasons was playing submissively in the background. I popped a piece of hard candy in my mouth and I nodded. Justin only kissed me. He kissed me to taste the sweetness of the candy and the bitterness of the whiskey I had had before. He smiled in return.








The 58th time Justin told me he loved me I told him I did not. Thus marked the beginning of the end. And slowly things began to clear up and fall apart. And I fucked up. And damn, it felt good.

"I love you." He brushed my hair aside and kissed me.

I felt nothing. But at least this time the void wasn't filled with silence.

"I..don't."

His head had whipped back up and there wasn't even a look of despair on his face, just surprise. I was visibly trembling now, weakly pushing his heavy body away from mine.

He looked at me and then away. Through the corner of his mouth, he said, "Why?"

And I couldn't say. I couldn't tell him that I knew. I knew. I knew everything.

Silence.

Fuck, I had my moment of truth, absolution, and I didn't do a damned thing about it. Chris was right. I was a coward.

The 67th time Justin told me he loved me we were sitting at a park bench. I was staring at a group of children, playing with a small red ball, bouncing it back and forth in a circle. I paid attention to the rhythm, the childish laugh, the tumble of the leaves falling to the ground.

Justin held onto my hand and I trembled. I tried to let go, but he was too strong for my resistance.

At the end of the day, when I sat in front of his fresh laundry, when I poured him a glass of water and a glass of whiskey, when I set a plate in front of him, I felt like crying. And it was here where I let myself cry in front of him.

And his way of consoling me was telling me he loved me. Sixty-eight. Fucking sixty-eighth time.








Finally on the 82nd time Justin told me he loved me, I told him I didn't love him. Again.

But it was different this time. He had sensed I had caught on.

I had caught on to his inability to love.

I had caught on to his empty words as his lips trailed my neck.

I had caught on to his loneliness, to his need to kiss me with his salty lips.

I had caught on to the fact that he didn't love me.

That he never loved me.








And when I sat down that night in front of the fireplace with a glass of juice in front of me and a cup of coffee on his side, he wasn't there to kiss me with his salty mouth.

And he wasn't there to tell me loved me.

And when I smiled, I smiled for the first time.