Let's pretend, she said, like it never happened, like the Sun hasn't already set on this twilight fantasy. And with the gloaming comes a certain vision--darker than the norm but strangely revealing, like watching baseball by moonlight at the edge of a field of corn. But unlike the sport, this game has no rules for you--only what you want now, which is what I won't allow since you don't deserve it.
I am not a bastion of warmth where you make seek shelter at a moment's notice or a font of happiness from which you may drink without recompense. I desire a penny for thoughts and a dime for actions or at least the honesty of admitting you're bankrupt. I concede: What I wanted was out of reach, but what I required (and deserved) was within the means of even the most destitute of vagrants.
It bothers me, who you are, but what hurts me is who I thought you were who you aren't. Asking the question, "How much of it was real?" and hearing the answer, "A name and number." Was I a rushing fool or you a mirage? I care enough to know the answer, but only because I care enough to never make the mistake again.
Yet somehow, amidst your tears and that feeling of my stomach evacuating through my heels, I managed to hear something else--the faintest whisper of revolution in an atmosphere of uncertainty. How perfect and fragile and perfectly fragile, a Faberge emotion with the possibility of hatching a future.
And, suddenly, I'm OK with pretending like it never happened--because it didn't.