Hi, Adosila. 

I could hear the weight in your voice. I had been expecting your call—I had spent the past week waiting for it—yet still, a small panic bloomed in my chest when I saw your name appear.

We would go through the same bland greetings as always.

I would say hi.

You would ask how I’d been.

I’d want to tell you I hadn’t been sleeping, that it had started again. But instead, I’d say, I’m fine.

You’d sense the lie, but you wouldn’t push. You had given up trying to fix me long ago.

“I need to talk to you.”

“I know.”

You do? You’d frown, realizing I had been waiting for this call.

You’d wonder if this time was really the last. But you’d smile at the routine we had built.

“It can’t happen again,” you said.

“You deserve better,” I said.

“I wouldn’t use the word better to describe you.”

Silence.

“At least I make you cum.”

You smiled then, letting your mind wander to that day. You had had enough—enough of faking moans, enough of hiding to pleasure yourself when he slept. It wasn’t that he wasn’t good; he was excellent. You remembered the last time you had a threesome (your idea, of course). You told him it was to keep things exciting, to broaden your sex life together. But in truth, it was just an excuse to have someone else touch you.

Afterward, your friend had called, gushing about how lucky you were to have someone like him—so full, so effective. And you were attracted to him. He could get you going.

But no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t make you cum.

“Hello? Don’t tell me my voice already put you to sleep.”

“I’m serious, Adosila . This has to stop. He’ll find out.”

“Then leave him.”

“And do what? Be with you?”

“Well, that’s an option.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you need help.” Help that I can’t give.

“I’m not asking you to fix me. I don’t need you to fix me.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

“It’s fine. I didn’t mean what I said.”

“Yes, you did.”

And you were right. I do need help. I’m going to get it. But I still need you.

My mind wandered. We had been apart for almost a year. I had begun to settle into your absence. Then you called.

“I need to cum.”

“Well, hello and good morning to you too.”

I was smiling. You always knew.

“I’m not joking.”

“When?”

“Are you busy now?”

“Not really.”

“Okay then. Now.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

When I arrived, you were already waiting. That worried me. One—because you never waited. Two—because on the rare occasion that you did, you became irritable. So color me surprised when you turned around, smiled, and hugged me.

I liked it.

We walked into the building—the same one we’d been coming to for the past year. I hated the gray walls, the plastic, judgmental smiles of the receptionists. Something about those smiles always made me feel watched.

We always planned to change hotels.

We never did.

This place was part of us.

“You need me,” I said, you laughed.

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Don’t start.” I laughed too.

“So, I’m just supposed to leave him because he doesn’t make me cum?”

“That’s as good a reason as any.”

“He’s good for me.”

I hated when you said that. I thought you said it to hurt me. But I knew it was true. Still, I pressed on.

“You know I can be better. And we’d have more fun.”

You laughed.

We were in the hotel room now. You were in my shirt. We had been talking. You were laughing.

Then you stopped.

You were serious now.

“I want to cum.”

I kissed you. Slowly at first. But you took me in, pulling me closer, deeper into you.

“You know we need to stop,” you said, pulling me out of my trip down memory lane.

“Do I?” I did.

“Adosila, he’s your friend.”

“I’d say ex-friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, the olodo didn’t tell you?”

“Adosila.”

“I apologize.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

But you would worry.

Because you knew—whatever it was, it was because of you.

You’d hate yourself for it.

“It’s not your fault,” I said. “It happens.”

But this?

You remembered the kiss, the coolness of the sheets against your skin when you lay down, the warmth coated with pleasure as I crawled between your legs. You smiled. This was always your favorite part.

“Tell me what you need me to do,” I said.

“I need you to leave me alone.”

“I can’t. And technically, you came to me.”

I could feel you rolling your eyes.

“Will you ever change?”

“Can’t fix what’s not broken.”

“Not broken, he says.”

You burst into laughter.

“Hahahaha—you’ve got jokes now?”

“I learned from the best.” You were still laughing.

“It’s raining.”

“It rained that day.”

“Adosila , stop.”

“You act like you don’t think about it. Like you didn’t like it. Like you regret it. And it pisses me off.”

“You know that’s not true.”

You remembered sitting on the bed, a blunt in your hand. You had cum more times than you could keep count of—more than you had in the past three months.

“So why?” I let my frustration spill over. “Because for the life of me, I don’t understand it. We both know you’re not happy. And still, you stay with him because he’s good for you?”

You were too busy wondering when you last felt happy.

You smiled—a sad, knowing smile.

The last time you were happy was that night in the hotel. When we talked. Laughed. Took a swim at midnight. Made love. And you came.

Finally, you spoke.

“I can’t get swallowed up by you again. I always end up drowning in you. I can’t let myself back into your uncertainty.”

The words hurt you more than they hurt me. But still, you said them.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Silence.

“Thank you, Adosila ,” you said.

“For what?”

Call ends.

Four months pass before I hear from you again.

My phone rings. I wait. Then answer.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“I’ll meet you there.”

And we’re there again.

With the plastic smiles and gray walls.