1He didn't love her.
He thought she was beautiful, admired her
like one does all pretty things. That's exactly what
she was,
pretty, like flowers or sunsets or lace. Something meant to be seen,
giving all the urge to touch. He had touched ... and felt... and
kissed... and fucked.
But he didn't love her.
She'd
been soft like those flowers he was so fond of comparing her to. Just
like lilies or orchids,
and, like them, she'd had her own heady
perfume. She'd tasted sweet on his tongue and it
brought to mind
old childhood rhymes. Girls are made of sugar and spice and
everything nice.
He didn't love her...
They'd all
just assumed he did. When he thought about it, which was often
enough, he realized it
was a fair enough assumption. He looked at
her too long sometimes, let his touch linger. Always
and never
enough. They even caught him smiling sometimes, watching his face as
if they
expected it to crack. It was enough to make sure he didn't
repeat the act... except maybe for her.
And when she cried he held her.
And when she laughed he'd let slip another smile.
"I love you" she'd say in the dark every night they were together.
"I don't," he'd whisper.
"I know," she'd answer, and smile