He pulls back, his hands falling away.
“Okay. Alright. We’re stopping.”
The crack climbs fast and hits my throat,
burning through my lungs
and up into my face.
Then—fuck—I’m crying.
Full-body,
breath-stealing,
shoulder-shaking tears.
Fucking embarrassing.
And before I can push him off or gather myself, he’s got me, wrapping both arms around me, pulling me in after I just fucked the whole night up.
I shake my head,
shoving the tears back inside.
“It’s the shots, okay?
“I don’t drink. I don’t cry.”
He holds me tighter, arms sincere.
I swipe under both eyes,
mad this is happening to me.
“You’re… weirdly nice and calm about this.”
He chuckles warm and shrugs.
“What can I say? I’m from Chicago.”
// 2:58 AM - PENTHOUSE - UPPER EAST SIDE, NYC //
It’s almost three in the fucking morning.
Andrew’s STD report’s lying in the pool chair in front of my crossed legs.
“This patient has undergone routine STI screening 21 times since 2019…”
If he didn’t tell me,
I would have seen this anyway,
asked why the fuck he tested himself this many times in five years.
Previous screenings on file:
09/28/2024 — Negative
