Tears taste like salt. Did you know that? He doesn’t reply. He touches my cheek. You have a pretty face, he says, pretty body too. His eyes wander down. I’ve seen this look before, from other men. He caresses my shoulder. He plays with me like a child. Don’t you like this?, he says. I turn my cheek away from him. I’m choking up; succeed in hiding my pain. His hand has moved to my ass. His eyes are hungrily looking at my hips. He’s no longer lifting up his gaze to meet mine. Faulty men lost in their desire rarely notice a lady’s heartache. I think of what Jane Austen would say. The bed filled with cushions feels like wet fur. Another ten years of this. He’s sweating. A lot. He said he came to talk. I close my eyes as his hands scrutinize my limbs ferociously, as they invade my privacy. When I was a girl, I had imagined intimacy differently.
This story was written while listening Lana Del Rey’s song “Young and Beautiful”.