When it's five in the afternoon, and you're at your apartment, there are many things that can keep your mind working. Currently, my mind is in a state of panic at the tragic incident that occurred hours ago. The "sleeping with Him" incident.
"I do not like him. I do not like him," I continuously whispered to myself.
But it felt good. It felt like life had meaning again. When you're alone for as long as I was, you get desperate for love. You'll throw your heart at anyone who'll take it because it's already dying.
I try not to think too much about it when I fell asleep that morning.
It wasn't until the next day at the studio did I get a pit in my stomach. That's when his girlfriend brought him donuts.
I immediately ran to the bathroom to puke. It felt like I was getting rid of everything toxic within me. I don't know if I like it or not.
Shortly after, He joins me. "Are you alright?"
"You have a girlfriend." My voice is weak and I'm gripping the toilet bowl.
He helps me up. "Darling, she doesn't need to know."
"That's wrong."
"Open your mouth." When I comply, he pops a few breath mints in my mouth. "I'll see you after rehearsal."
I didn't want to.
I dreaded it more and more as the hours passed.
But I did see him after. And we had sex again. Maybe I didn't want to. I don't know. I drank too much to care. After I puked again and went to bed.
This continued for a while. We would hide away in rooms between rehearsal takes and make out like teenagers. He would grab my face in the darkness and slide a hand in my pants. He liked that I was quite.
It was because he wasn't very good.
It became another routine in my day. Sort of a thing to check off my list. Wake up, eat, record, get high, drink, have sex, puke, sleep.
It was dreadfully dull. Especially sex. It was only ever missionary and when he was finished, he went to bed and left me to clean up. He also doesn't like going down on girls, but I don't mind. If it's anything like his kissing, I'm lucky.
He doesn't like jokes that much either. He'll get mad and say to stop fucking around. Especially if it's a joke on his fragile masculinity.
But he holds me at night and kisses my forehead. He braids my hair and sings to me and makes me smile at the end of the day.
I don't know if this is love. Does love come in different ways? I don't feel for him what I felt for Fred. I'm not really sure anymore if it was love I felt for Fred. I can hardly distinguish dreams from fiction anymore. I only remember the poems.
"Darling, I have a question?" He asks.
I pull out of my daze. "Hm?"
He holds out a take out container. "What's this?"
"Sweet and Sour chicken. That was my lunch."
"So that's why you're getting pudgy."
I frown. I've lost about twenty pounds since I moved to America. "What?"
"I didn't want to say anything, but it's really turning me off. Could you start eating salad or something?"
I shrug. "Sure."
He smiles and plants a kiss on my forehead. "I'm doing this because I care."
"I know."
I throw up two times a day now.
