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The Last Post

I’ll no longer be posting to my blog. I may return to it. I may not. I haven’t the intention to add anything new – but I might one day. There was some interest in adapting some of my work into short films. I wasn’t interested in that. Yet it gave me the idea to adapt some of my posts into a play. I have. The title of my play is “Leaving His Mark.” That’s still floating around. We’ll see how that goes. I’ve adapted my blog into a novel. The title is, “Leaving His Mark.” It’s currently in hands on both coasts. We’ll see how that goes.

I learned a couple of things the other day. I’m in a great deal of pain. My foot aches. While checking it for injuries the other morning. I took my finger and traced the scar that lines the interior of my foot. It’s longer than I realized. I grabbed a ruler and measured. It’s a little over 6 inches long. That doesn’t sound like a great deal of length. But, that’s half a ruler. Go measure. It’s one goddamned long scar. And I realized that my foot is marked.

As I prepare my novel for publication – I’ve realized that I have exposed every single aspect of my life. My novel is an autopsy. I’ve written my pain, my pleasure, my sins, my sorrows, my triumphs, and my travesties and splayed them across the internet for strangers to examine. Frankly, I’m surprised I had the balls. I don’t want to do that anymore. I won’t abandon my words. they’ve cost too much to delete. But they also cost too much to dissect when I expose them every single day.

So.

For those of you who have read my words from the beginning – thank you. I offer my sincere and profound gratitude.

For those of you who’ve found my words – just look at the index on the sidebar and find February 2007. I hope you find your echo.

May God keep us all.

Amen.

Okay – I didn’t know this.

This weekend, I lost all my confidence as a writer. I told myself my novel was worthless and I felt humiliated and ashamed of the extent of my effort and of my exhibition. Yet I’d put so much work into it, I wasn’t prepare to leave it orphaned. So I had decided to rework it.

But I’ve read my words so many times I could no longer find the logical or grammatical errors. I’d paid a woman to read it and find the errors. And yet I found more.

I had an idea. I asked my sister to read my novel to me. Yeah, really. She agreed. As Carol reads my words aloud, I’m able to hear my errors. It’s the most marvelous writing exercise. I’ve done this for theatrical pieces. I’ve done this for orations. But, never for prose.

So Carol reads to me and I hear my words.  I hear errors and lapses of logic.  So I’ve tweaked.  My tenses are now taut. I’ve revisited; I’ve removed; I’ve reworked; I’ve retooled.

Okay, my novel has merit. And I am one hell of a gifted writer. Ballsy? If I didn’t think I had talent, then why in the name of the good Christ would I waste my time or waste yours?

Now here’s my point:

Writers often ask me for advice. Here’s the second greatest piece of advice I can offer to my fellow writers: Have someone read you to you. Listen to your words. Listen to the syncopation of your syntax. Notice your rhythms. You’ll hear the errors and marvel at the mastery of your gift. Seriously, it’s an invaluable exercise.

Oh you’ve noticed that I typed it was the second greatest piece of advice. The first? Tell the truth.

Less > More

“What more do they want?” he asked as he patted his belly. His hand was tucked under his t-shirt; his feet were sprawled over her sofa and dangled above the arch of its back.

“Less,” she sighed. “They need you to be less.”

“That doesn’t seem right.” He swung his feet to the floor and sat upright. He put a palm on a cushion beside each hip and leaned his back against the sofa.

“Who wants to be reminded all the time that someone else has more?” She took a drag from her cigarette.

“Do you know people think I lie about smoking because I always smell like you?”

“I’m not quitting for you.” She tamped the butt in her ashtray. Her face glowed in the light from the tree.

“I’m not asking you to.” He rubbed his palm along his scalp. “I need a haircut.”

“You need to realize that no one is ever going to like you.” She sat back in the chair and raised her feet and barefooted the edge of the coffee table.

“Why? People don’t like me?”

“Not really. Oh, you’re loved. But no one likes you. You’re a constant reminder. Who wants that?”

“John said people aren’t afraid enough to read me yet.”

“When did you talk to him?”

“I talked to him today. He’s in town.”

“How long is he home for?”

“He‘s in Michigan tomorrow and he goes back Wednesday.”

“I like John.”

“He likes you.”

“So why did he say that?” She stretched her legs and paralleled her feet on the table.

“Well, he read my book.”

“You sent it to him?”

“Yeah. Email.” He bent at his waist and touched her feet. “Jesus you’ve got pretty feet.”

“What did he think of it?”

“He thinks it’s good. But he said no one’s going to want to read it yet. He said people aren’t afraid enough to read it yet.” He slid off her sofa and knelt on her floor. His hands rubbed the length of her legs. “You’re a soft woman,” he whispered as he lowered his lips to her legs.

“I don’t understand his point.” She widened the width between her feet. “Tell me what he said.”

“Well you know my Christmas post?” His mouth moved to her shin.

“Yeah.” She leaned back and closed her eyes.

“Well he said no one wants to read that Christmas isn’t about them. He said people are counting their presents under the tree. Who wants to read that it’s not about them?”

“He’s right.”

“I know that.” His palms parted her robe. He leaned up from his knelt. “Want to know what else he said?”

“Yeah,” she whispered.

“He said I’m wrong.”

She opened her eyes. “About what?”

“About wanting people to read it.” He sat back on his heels.

“And?”

“Okay I can’t remember his exact words but it was something like, um, courage is about the act and not the reaction.”

“What?”

“Okay. These are my words. But I was talking about being a coward and being afraid to write my shit. You know? And he said something like, having the courage to expose your soul has nothing to do with people’s reaction to the exposition. Courage has nothing to do with how the courageous act was received.”

“And you’re wrong about …”

“God I hate when you do that!” he huffed. “Don’t lead the Goddamned questions. Ask it or don’t.”

“Finish the thought or don’t,” she rebutted.

“He said it was wrong to expect a reward for my writing. He said it was selfish.”

“Well I disagree.” She straightened her robe, leaned back into her chair, and closed her eyes.

“Well, I don’t.”

“You agree with him because he’s a priest.”

“I agree with him because he’s right.” He rubbed his palms over his face and sanded the skin of his cheeks. “Anyway, he made me realize something. Something I never got before.”

“What?”

“I never realized before that some people just don’t want to do the right thing.” He sat flat and stretched his legs under her table.

“Oh. I realized that years ago.”

“I hadn’t. I always thought that if people knew the right thing to do – they’d do it.” He spread his arms and placed each palm on the floor behind him. “That’s the biggest reason I write.  To tell people.  How stupid was that?”  He stretched his back and neck. “Jesus I’m in knots.”

“It’s the stress baby.” She looked at him and shyly smiled.

“Jesus Christ I’m crazy about you.” He grinned as he struggled to his knees and leaned up for her kiss.

“Whatcha gonna do?” She giggled when they pulled apart.

She opened the top of her robe as he bent to touch her with his tongue. “I’m going to learn to let people be less,” he admitted as he dropped his mouth to her waist.

“More,” she murmured as she put her hands on his head.

1. Jon & Kate GosselinTLC should change its name to TMI

2. Tiger Woods – Why? How? What-did-she-do-to-his-face? Nope.

3. Lady Gaga – Gaggable. It’s disco people.

4. Michael Jackson – No. Let’s expand this. Any Jackson: Latoyota. Janet. Jesse.

5. Susan Boyle – God love her but she didn’t invent sound.

6. Adam Lambert – Boy George wore eyeliner dude. It’s not as radical as you hoped.

7. Levi Johnston – Love Palin or hate her. I don’t even want to see dead rats gnawed by maggots. His porn name should be “Pair-A-Sight.” But apparently he kept his meager pair out of sight.

8. Lou Dobbs – Want to be a credible voice of reason? Sport credible hair. When he left CNN did he take Lady Clairol with him?

9. Chastity Bono – Just because your mother enjoys the goodwill of the American public …

10. Tie: Jimmy Carter / Bill Clinton – Hate the Republican presidents but at least they go away.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving.

 

My friend Mike says that men should be grateful for three things:

1. Beer
2. The 2 cycle engine
3. Sundresses.

There’s a lot of truth to that. But those are his words. They’re not mine. I know what I’m supposed to be grateful for: Liberty. Freedom – but those are concepts that aren’t real to me. Those are concepts that are appreciated by the bound and the enslaved. Frankly in America – most of us will be concerned about eating too much today and not whether or nor we’ll be eating any.

So what am I grateful for?

Oh, I’m grateful for parents who put themselves at the last of the line. I know what it’s like to not take a turn because I want a child’s life to turn around and because I know they need the opportunity more than I need the escape from the responsibility.

I’m grateful I have two sisters who love me and don’t compete against me. And they’re completely supportive of me.

I’m grateful I have a brother who completes me. He is everything that I am not. He has talents that I lack. But we share the exact same marrow.

Because no one has more in common with us than our brothers and sisters. I’m mean think about it. When we were conceived a piece of a father’s soul and a piece of a mother’s soul joined in union and became and came into existence. And no matter how we vow or how we birth – our brothers and sisters are truly US. All US. In a very real way our brothers and sisters are in our hearts, souls, minds, and literally – in our bodies. I love that. So even in death they’re never really gone at all …. It’s more just a question of geography.

I’m grateful for my friends who support me, educate me, chastise me, cheer me, entertain me, and love me. You know in movies how the protagonist sits at a bar and talks to his buddy about his heartaches? I have that. I’m grateful for that. I know it’s rare.

I’m grateful for smartass women who love me, entertain me, and remind me when I’m a horse’s ass.

I’m grateful for Brett Favre. And I’m grateful God’s answered my prayers so that man can pass some pigskin. I didn’t like how he was treated.

And I’m grateful for the gifts of God. I’ve yet to meet a man who has more gifts than I have. God’s given me everything. And I’ve never met a man who was more undeserving. I haven’t worked for it, earned it, or deserved it. But I recognize it. And I’m grateful.

Oh and I’m grateful for the sweater vest.

Happy Thanksgiving my dear friends. Thank you for being my friends.

I went into a major supermarket on the day before Thanksgiving. I know – risky huh? I bought one item. I thought you’d enjoy seeing the world’s record for the least ever spent at a major supermarket the day before Thanksgiving. Yeah, it can be done. I’ve shot the snap. Here’s the receipt. Now – on to Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster…

Oh I don’t mind shopping. I live by two grocery stores: Lunds & Whole Foods. Lunds is very pricey. I’d just as soon buy from a less expensive store – but I boycott Whole Foods. I hate the duplicity of the place. I’ve boycotted it for years. I can’t fathom why they have a parking lot there. Isn’t the emission from the cars contradicting the whole idea of green and organic? Nothing more organic than leg power. And the idea of livestock grown without chemicals – is there a secret source of water or air that I’m not aware of? I mean didn’t the car driven to the grocery store just put chemicals into the air that those chickens and cows breathe? Get my point? There’s no wisdom in all that.

It’s like pro-lifers who support the war. Don’t stick your toe off the curb man – march in the Goddamned street. Stand for a principle or not. I don’t give a shit either way – I just hate duplicity and half-assed. Yesterday I saw a sign on a SUV: “Attack Iraq? NO!” Okay where in the name of Christ do they think they’re getting the gasoline for that big-ass car? People use these causes and principles so they can feel inclusion with some sciolistically smug ideology that purports there is intellectual superiority associated with liberal causes. And conservatives claim some sort of moral superiority with their conservative causes. When in fact, neither side actually puts their testicles on the table and stands for the principle. Mother Teresa said, “give until it hurts.” I say – you have a cause – stand for it even when it costs you friends, family, cash, and community.

Potentials

I’m straddling the line between exhaustion and exhilaration. Considering my encroaching desperation, I’m strangely optimistic. So, I’m embracing possibility. I haven’t a single fact to support it, but it seems the most sensible and sagacious decision of my life. If I have to live shallow-breathed, then it might as well be because I’ve surrounded my heart with hope.

Imagination

I accept that all men are created equally.
The hands of God forms them.
The breath of God fills them.
I believe hatred is a deformity.
It unforms the likeness and image of God.
Hatred is the desecration of His creation.

I had imagined men to be noble. I had sought to be liked.
I sought an alike.
I tried to inform.
I tried to reform.
I sought a uniform.

I recreated myself and participated in their recreations.
I saw hatred where love should live.
I saw that kindness was as absent in men’s hearts as toes were inside my shoe.
I disliked their alike.
I tucked my unshed tears.
I gathered my broken heart.
I pivoted my damaged foot.
And I walked home alone.

Conservation

Every man is conservative. It just depends what he wants to keep.

I’ve never met a liberal who was tolerant of a differing opinion.

Two things:

Edith Piaf is one of my favorite singers. I listen to her often. I could claim it’s our shared ethnicity that attracts me. But that’s not true. I love her passion. This week I watched the film “La Vie En Rose.” I thought it was hollow. But it reminded me of her arthritic hands and her balled fists.

Each day I take three small walks around my block. My diabetic foot seems to draw towards my knee if I don’t stretch it with a stroll. I’m humiliated each time I pace the pavement because it’s such a limited space. Yesterday I was in intense pain as I plotted around the periphery. I prayed with each pounce. The pain was intense. I considered taking something for the pain but I try to tolerate the ache. As a realistic diabetic I know that more pain-filled days await me, so I try to pace myself with pain pills. As of now, I take nothing but one aspirin a day. I manage my diabetes with diet and exercise – well, if I can count three small strolls around my block as exercise – and I know that insulin and a pain management plan are as certain in my future as stooped shoulders and shuffling shoes. Yesterday I walked with soundless and concealed tears. I was in intense pain. I prayed the Hail Mary with each step and offered my pain for the forgiveness of my sins. I used to count the Rosary on my fingers, but yesterday I forced my fists into balls to refrain my eyes from bawling. I thought of Edith Piaf. I realized her stance and gestures were more a nod to her pain than her performance.

Last night my buddy invited me to his house for beers and a bonfire. I can’t call him a buddy anymore, Geoff is now my friend. We sat around his bonfire until the autumnal air forced us inside. We talked about biking and my history of exercise and my limited movements. He asked to see my foot. Without care or concern, I shucked my shoe and rolled down my sock. I looked at my limb and I saw my foot through my friend’s eyes. Geoff was kind and caring and didn’t show discomfort at his view.

I reviewed my foot.

I’m used to seeing it. I’ve gotten used to gratitude for its use. Each morning I place a mirror under my foot and I examine it from toe to heel. I’m accustomed to the sight. Last night I saw that it is mangled and misshapened. It is ugly. I looked at my foot and I realized I’m crippled. Geoff is not the first person who has seen my foot – women have seen my foot many times. But shame guides my showing when I roll down my sock in front of a love. Last night I didn’t feel ashamed as I revealed the amputations. Until I exhibited it.

And then I felt humiliated.

Last night my shame balled my hurt into a fist and punched my pride. And although it wasn’t a performance, I’m still shamed by my show.

My French is as limited as my steps, and yet I sing along with “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.” I have too many regrets to sing more than the rote. This morning I thought about some of my regrettables. When I was younger, I’d tell myself: “At least I have my pride.” This morning I realized that I’m not at my least anymore; I’m at my most.

From this moment on:

This is the most foot I will retain. This is the most eyesight I will have. This is the most active I can be. I’ve faced that. I can live with that. For now, I can be happy most of the time.

I’ve lived most of my life as a two-fisted man. I’ve grabbed and grasped and grappled. I will live the rest of my life with two fists. I can handle that. I’ll be grateful to Almighty God for giving me the fortitude to endure. I will offer up my pain in petition for fortitude and in contrition for my sins. How many feet does a man need when his obligations require him to spend his life on his knees?

I will withstand. I will stand with God. I may only have one and one part of a foot, but I will endure and I will be grateful. It’s the least I can do and the most I can give.


There are only two types of people in the world:

Those who seek to obtain.
Those who seek to attain.

One is discontented without the contents.
One is contented within the context.

Vibrations

Here’s what I want to know this morning:

If women resent the fact that men often require women to be their sexual vibrator, then why are women often insistent that men are their emotional vibrator? If a man is self-centered to require a woman to fulfill his sexual needs, why is a women not considered equally as self-centered to require a man to fulfill her emotional needs? Why does a woman require a man to be emotionally available for her and yet resent the fact when he asks her to be sexually available for him?

Where’s the equity?

Face It

My buddy asked a question on his Facebook status today. He asked what happened to the personal emails he used to receive. I have his answer.

Text messages happened / sitting in front of computer screens all day happened / punching puns into cell phones happened / Facebook statuses happened / Twitter happened.

Everyone is tired of typing. I used to compose emails. My emails were legendary. Now I send one sentence. Why? I’d rather have face time.

I’m finding myself sitting beside my friends again at coffee shops or on bar stools or around a bonfire or in a garage. Or at a bowling alley. We’re talking again.

And if we can’t touch shoulders and share each other’s space – we’re Skyping or talking through telephones.

Emails, text messages, status updates, twitters are all discourse without the intercourse. They are as unsatisfying as closed mouth kisses. When we were kids, a kiss was still a kiss. Yet that time went by. We had more. And then we traded for new. And we tasted better and now we’re unwilling to allow our last kisses to be less than everlasting.

I’m going to tell you the future. Here’s the future by Mark R Trost.

Newspapers are dead. They’re not coming back. The news will be reduced to single twittered lines of text. We’re used to taglines and slogans and headlines. Newspapers aren’t dead because of technology. Newspapers are dead because we don’t believe them anymore. CNN & FOX news are dead because we don’t believe them anymore. The publishing industry is wrong,. Books aren’t dead. People are tired of the subject matter. My God we’ve read the same stories over and over again. Give us a new story or at least a new spin and we’ll buy the book. Just don’t write novels that are strictly by the book.

People are tired of looking at computer screens. Blogs are dead. Kindles are dead. Facebook is dead. Myspace will stay for awhile because it’s a vital and economical way to showcase new music. So why aren’t tangible texts dead? Because we still want to know. We still want to discover. So we’ll read a book because we can hold it. Because the weight of the white is real.

We’re not going to keep looking at a screen. People want to touch again. We want to touch each other. We want to keep in touch. We want to connect. We’re scared. We feel disconnected. We just won’t say it aloud. So we’re trying to hold it together. We want to hold on.

Emails and text messages and twitters and statuses are just words. Yet the words were made flesh. And now we feel too discontented to continue to allow the content to exist and not flesh it out. Open your fisted hands that punch keys all day and leave us feeling keyed up. We’re bored typing those keys. Key bored indeed. Open your hands and walk outside and offer your hand to the lonely man who lives beside you.

It’s time to press the flesh again. There’s our pressing issue. You were issued two open hands. Offer them to your brother. That’s the key to our existence.

Or will we remain the type of people who sit in darkened rooms and type symbols to silhouettes?

People wonder what my buddies and I talk about during our Beers & Bullshit. Well usually we talk about women. And sometimes we talk about life.

This week my friend Mike and I talked about Creationism verses evolutionism. Mike’s position is for him to talk about. Me? I am neither a creationist nor an evolutionist. Oh just wait before each side applauds. I believe in the creation of mankind by a benevolent God. But I am not a creationist because creationists limit creation to one act. They see it as a noun. Creationists see the act as a beginning and an end without a middle. I see creation as an on going process. I see it as a verb. I see the noun conjugating the verb.

I am not a evolutionist because evolutionists see evolution as an on going process without a beginning or an end. They see it as a verb. Evolutionists state that things evolve and mutate. Good. Dandy. Yet things have to start as something. I believe in an origin. There has to an original for there to be a new. Evolutionists don’t see the noun.

People ask me – as if I’m daft – to describe the origin of God. I say He is self existing. And they want an explanation of His existence. Okay, Here’s mine. I can’t describe the fermentation of beer to a 2 year old. He wouldn’t understand the process. But that doesn’t mean the process doesn’t exist. I don’t limit God just because I’m too limited to understand Him. I just know that God exists. And anyone who limits himself to only believing in the tangible denies the existence of the mystical and the magical. And I believe God created those too.

Now, I want to be clear. I believe in the creation of mankind. Yet I cannot align myself with the creationists because they deny the existence of the Holy Trinity. They see the action of the Father in creation. They see the act of The Holy Spirit in aspiration. Yet they deny the existence of Christ in redemption. Think about it. Redemption is the process of evolution from desecration to sanctification. Through the reception of The Sacraments, the soul evolves from sinful to the sacred.

Hey. And you thought we talked about tits.

Okay usually we do.

All For One

They rolled apart and fell onto their backs. He took his hands and pulled the perspiration from his face. He wiped the sweat from his chest and put one palm behind his head and the other on his heart. “You can’t marry him.”

She slid to her side and reached for her cigarettes and withdrew one from her pack. She grabbed her lighter, lit her cigarette, put the lighter on her nightstand, took a drag, and then reset herself on her back. “I am going to marry him.”

“Then what are we doing here?” He felt the damp hairs on his chest, whisked the wet, and wiped his hand on the sheet. “Jesus! What the hell do you have your heat on? It’s hotter than a bitch in here.”

“Apparently, we’re melting,” she exhaled.

“Let’s go take a cool shower.” He flipped to his side and faced her.

“Could I finish my cigarette?” she sighed.

He took his finger and traced her nipple. He bent and kissed his trail. “Baby, what are we doing here?”

“Well I know what you’re doing,” she smiled.

“Talk to me.”

“I wanted to see you.” She lifted her back, arched it toward her side and tamped her cigarette into the ashtray. She replaced her head on her pillow.

“I’m glad.” He leaned into his elbow and raised his mouth to her kiss. He rested his head on his hand. “You love him?”

“No.” She pulled a portion of the sheet up above her waist.

“I don’t get it.”

“I love me with him.”

He pinched the points between his eyes. “Do you love me?”

“Mark, we’ve had this conversation.” She stood up and walked into the bathroom.

He watched her climb back into bed. “We just slept together and you’re engaged to someone else. Indulge me. Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t get it.” He rolled onto his back and cradled his head over his opened hands.

“Your foot looks good.” He followed her eyes to the foot of her bed. “Have you been having any problems?”

“No.” He lifted it about a foot off her bed and waved it like a windshield wiper. “It’s been good. Jesus. Do you remember the first time you saw it? You cried.”

She flipped on to her side and slid over his arm. Her head rested on his shoulder. Her hand rested on his chest. “I saw how ashamed you were.”

“Yeah.” He bent to her upturned face and kissed her. “Talk to me.”

“I’m going to marry him.”

“I know.” He took a breath, slid his arm from under her, swung his legs away from her, and sat up straight. He balanced himself against his hands. She raised herself up to his pyramid, slipped her hands under his arms, and surrounded him. He felt her breasts against his back. “I just don’t get why.” He stood up and scanned the carpet for his shoes.

“You can walk on the carpet.” She looked up at him. “I vacuumed it to make certain there wasn’t anything you could injury yourself on.”

He dropped onto the edge of the bed and put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “I can’t believe you did that.” She wrapped herself around his back and kissed his shoulder. “It’s like the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” He turned his face and she lifted up to kiss him. “You must have been pretty confident I’d come over!”

She slightly slapped his shoulder as she laughed. “You bastard!”

“Why did you ask me to come over?”

“Because you’re in love with me.”

“Yeah.”

“And because I’m in love with me too.”

“I know.”

“You love me. He loves himself when he’s with me. I love I don’t have to be anything with him.”

“Yeah, you have to be something with me.” He stood up and walked toward her bathroom.

“You’ve gained weight. I’m glad. You were too thin.” She stretched across her bed and grabbed her cigarettes from their rest. She heard his stream from across her room. “How’s your blood sugars?” She heard the faucet dash, his splash, and watched him return toward her bed.

“Good. Everything’s good.” She scooted over toward her side and made room for him. He slid back on her bed. “Why today? What made you think of me?”

“Why?”

“I want to know. Lots of things remind me of you.” He plumped the pillow and sprawled out. He sat up and pulled the sheet that haloed his heels. He pulled it up to his chest. “Be romantic. Indulge me.”

“Okay.” She tamped her cigarette and rested it in the ashtray and stretched out on her side. She faced him. “I walked out of the shower this morning and when I went into the bedroom he was touching himself. I asked him why. I was there. We could have had sex. It would have been different if I hadn’t stayed with him last night. But there he was. And he said that sometimes he liked to do things that make himself feel good.” She took her hand and whisked a hair out of her eyes. “I asked him if he wanted me to join him and he said no.”

He started to laugh, “Okay, and this reminded you of me, how?”

She stared in his eyes. “I thought, if he can do things without me that make him feel good, then so can I.”

“So you asked me over?”

“Yeah. I wanted to listen to you.”

“To listen to me?”

“Yeah, I love to listen to you. I love that you talk to me. He doesn‘t talk to me.”

“Don’t you think that’s pretty goddamned selfish to use me like this?” He sat upright and swung his legs off of the bed.

“I didn’t use you. We traded conversation for sex.” She echoed his actions, stood up, and walked around the bed toward her closet. She pulled her robe off of a hook and wrapped it around herself. She belted it. “I’ve always loved your honesty sweetheart. So, be honest now.” She walked over to her dresser and picked up her hairbrush. She began brushing her hair to cool herself off. “Can you see that you just used me for exactly the same reason?”

“What?” He put each palm on a knee and leaned toward her.

“You’re in love with me.”

“Yeah.”

“And you just made love to another man’s fiancée.”

“Yeah. Hardly my finest hour.”

“And you did it because you feel good when you’re with me.”

“Yes.”

“So all three of us did something that made us feel good that could hurt someone else if they knew it.”

He put his head down on the pillow and crossed his arms over his chest. “We suck.”

“Well I’d call it selfish maybe. But I think it’s forgivable.”

He lifted his head and looked her in her eyes. “Do you realize that if you marry him I’ll never see you again?”

“Yes.” She put her brush on her dresser.

“Are you prepared to lose me forever?”

“I already did Mark. Can’t you see that honey?” She turned around and entered into her bathroom and shut the door.

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