At some point, you stopped loving him. Maybe it was when he told you that he loved you, just to get that swab. Maybe it was when he was shot and you severed your heart strings, just in case he died. Maybe it was ten minutes ago, when he walked out of your house, leaving you naked, sweaty, and used on your couch. At some point you stopped loving him.
At some point, you started loving her. Maybe it was when you were faced with her life being cut short by HIV. Maybe it was when you woke up and she was there at your bedside. Maybe it was ten minutes ago, when you looked her in the eye and could think of no words good enough, so you left. At some point you started loving her.
The water is cool against your skin as you attempt to wash away the remnants of the evening's events: the smell of sex, the taste of alcohol, the bruise of his scruff. You attack your skin with a rough sponge, the texture not unlike his face, and it leaves angry red patches where its path has been traced. Scrubbing furiously for a long moment, you throw the sponge down and rest your forehead against the side of the shower. The water is cool against your skin.
The water is like fire over your back, burning the ridges of muscle pulled tight by your leaning form. The heat of the water is reminiscent of the heat of her body. Running your hands over your arms, corded with thick muscle, you can almost feel her touch. The feeling rushes from your head and settles in your stomach. The water is like fire over your back.
You know that he will treat you no differently, that the previous night means nothing other than sex to him. You pass him in the hallway, eyes down, and almost swear that he makes a move to speak to you. A second, a minute, an hour passes, the same as always. You go to his office to say good evening, and he's kissing you, his hand soft on your face. Pulling away, you smile sadly and leave. You know that he will treat you no differently.
You know that she will treat you differently. You pass her in the hallway and some deep, carnal desire urges you to say something, or do something. Of course, you don't. The day lulls through and she doesn't leave your mind, haunting you like the ghost of a thing that she is. She comes to your office and your lips are on hers, desperate and pleading. She pulls away and smiles knowingly before leaving. You know that she will treat you differently.
You do not love him anymore. You tell yourself daily. You do not love him anymore.
You love her. You tell yourself daily. You love her.