I met him on a night out. Basement club. Small, grungy, hollowed out cocoon of fairy-lighted rooms. He was a friend of a friend of a friend, and at first I didn't think much of him. Slightly strained conversation over one too many beers. Later we got lost in the dancefloor, and with his hand in mine the memories get hazy. TaxiKeysStairsBed. I was expecting... I don't know, what I always expect. Decent, cold, impersonal. I turned the light off. He turned it back on. "You look prettier with the light on" he said.
In the morning there was no quick exit. I didn't wake to the rustling of sheets, the creaking of the bed and the mumble of "I'll see you later".There was no ache in my chest, no bitter taste. He kissed my head, his arm wound round my waist and fingers tangled together. "Morning." he said.
ou get used to it, I guess. Being treated like shit. You begin to lower your expectations. I don't care if it was just a night, because that one night means more to me then so many others put together.
And it wasn't because I loved him. I barely knew him.
But suddenly it had became a lot easier for me to consider loving myself.