Staring into my husband’s stony face I realize I could probably make it as a prostitute. Not because I’m that good, but because I care that little. The kisses on my neck. The thrust of his body. The saliva dripping from his mouth. This is the mechanics of love, the clinical way of love resounding memories of how it once was.
I’m good at pretending to care. My hands gripping the softness of his body. My tongue licking my lips. Yes. I’m good at pretending to care. And when he asks, “Are you OK?” It makes me think my clientele would be virgin college boys who fear my woman’s body. And when he asks, “Are you enjoying it?” I smile because his concern, like theirs would be, is sweet.
I lie. Not only to his question, but on my back. Allowing him to move my body like a doll. I pretend for his ego, for his enjoyment. Like any good hooker worth her cent. His breathing increases. My smile is habit. There are no more kisses. His forehead drops to my lips. That’s right. Let me take care of you. Let me prove my use.
Yes. I think I could survive it. That place beyond meaningless. That place beyond one night.
That place beyond.