An Imaginary Brush with Death

I don't know what I was seeking. Maybe it was curiosity, as I claimed it to be, or maybe it was something else. A Freudian imposter would say it has to do with daddy issues and the inner me says its something to do with having been cheated on, a form of misplaced vengeance. I don't know.

I wonder if the term "no strings attached" can actually be accomplished. Can a person sleep with someone on a semi regular basis without a bond of any kind being formed? He said NSA.

"I thought this was only going to be NSA. Keep my email just in case you change your mind"

I want to, I do. But I don't think I can. I cant sleep with a married man. I would always be wondering about his wife. Is she hurt?Does she know? Will she find out and shoot me?

We are in the bedroom, some shabby motel. He is far to cheap, too scared to pay for anything but a cheap motel. The sheets are clean enough.The carpet smells faintly of mildew and cigarettes. I am trapped beneath his weight and my feet are tangled in the sheets. My fingers, in wonton passion, are raking through his cropped hair. He doesn't look me in the face. Maybe I remind him of his wife. NSA. No real emotional feelings. Inside I am numb but here we are, dancing. As he reaches his climax, I am left aching, dissatisfied, an offer to finish me off never comes, just as I never come. Still tangled, the sheets wrapped tightly and haphazardly around our twisted form, his hot breath sticking to my shoulder we hear a bang. There she is,hair wild, gun shaking.

"You bastard"

And I am dead.



No thank you.



Nena