Face to face with him, liking our time together more so now than when we were a couple and involved, I said to him, “You’re going to be fine without my ass. I’m sure you have more than one bottom you’re sleeping with.”
He chuckled. “You’re not stupid.”
“So how many bottoms do you have on the side?”
“Three. A florist. A greasy blue-collar mechanic. A postal service worker named Bert. The florist rails me like you wouldn’t believe.”
It was my turn to chuckle. “You get around.”
He brushed fingers against one of my cheeks in a romantic and significant action. “I do. Always did. Always will.”
“So my news isn’t breaking your heart, is it?”
He pulled his fingers away and sighed; the first time in a long time that he sounded real to me, like the man I had fallen in love with, but a man who wasn’t there anymore and probably never would be again. “Not really. Just promise me something, Paul.”