I remember the first time we made love. It was a bittersweet feeling. I loved her with all my heart; possibly too much not to feel conflicted by this. I had under a month ago seen her slam the door of the house she lived in, thinking she would never return. And I felt guilty and awful that it was my flirting and my feelings for her that drove them apart.
Nonetheless, she heard me say I was interested in her sexually, and this was as true now as ever. She undressed herself, and I followed suit. Even though I'd never done anything like it before, I had heard the basics of how I was supposed to. A couple of times I'd left her wanting—she said it wasn't because of my skills, although I didn't quite buy that.
One day I surprised her by making cologne out of her favorite herb… I barely had to do anything that night. It was the first time she had as much fun as I did. The third time's the charm, or so it would seem. I loved her, and it was sweet of her to love me back.
But I realized something. Every night we were happy. Every morning we woke up in each other's arms and it was the best feeling in the world. But between the morning and the night, we would be in the marketplace. Everyone glared at us when we held hands—slowly, but surely, she was letting go sooner, until eventually, she stopped holding my hand entirely. We were reprimanded every time we were caught kissing behind a building—slowly, but surely, she was kissing me more infrequently, until eventually, she stopped kissing me altogether.
"Desdemona," I said one night, "We need to talk."
"Talk?" Desdemona asked, "Why?"
"It seems like you… you don't love me as much as you used to…" I said. I wanted with all my heart for her to grab me and tell me that wasn't true, but figured nothing of the sort would happen.
"Zihark," she said, "I do love you! Now sweetheart, let's make love again."
As long as she was willing I was. But it took us both longer than usual. And Desdemona said, "It happens sometimes. Don't worry about it."
I would have gladly heeded her words, if this was an anomaly. It wasn't. It wasn't even just a pattern. It was a trend. The regularity of it changed—slowly, but surely, we took longer and longer, until eventually, it happened.
"I don't want to," she said.
"I… I understand," I said. I did understand, but not in the way the phrase usually means. I understood the trend had come to a head. I knew that she was planning to break up with me.
"I love you Zihark," she said, "Don't get the wrong idea."
I'm right and she knows it.
"I just don't feel like making love right now."
Because you want to lessen the sting of when you dump me.
"But maybe tomorrow," she said.
There won't be a… wait, what? For a time, I felt that a weight had been lifted off my chest. We lay in the grass together.
"Zihark," Desdemona said, "Are you planning to dump me?"
"Never! I would never dump you!" I said. "I love you too much."
"Even though all the people hate you and can't stand our relationship?" she asked.
"That's their problem, not mine," I said. "Desdemona, I love you." I kissed her.
"I… I love you too," Desdemona said. She waited until she thought I was asleep. She ran into a clearing and started to cry.
"Desdemona…" I said, "What's wrong?"
"It's… it's nothing, Zihark. Go back to sleep," she said.
"No," I said, "If you're upset, it's my duty as your boyfriend to figure out what the problem is."
"Duty as my boyfriend…" she muttered. "Dammit."
"Dammit?" I asked, "What's 'dammit'?"
"Nothing," Desdemona said. "Go back to sleep."
"No," I said. "Not until you stop crying."
"Zihark," she said, wiping her eyes, "I'll be fine. I just… got sprayed by a skunk." I could smell her… she smelled perfectly normal. She was lying. But why? She is going to dump me.
I tried my best to sleep but it was impossible. Eventually, my body reached its limit, and I crashed.