You sit out on the front porch, staring out into the night. It's late- the only light to interrupt the darkness was the orb of light that was the moon, and the stars that sprinkled the sky like glitter. You know the sun will come up soon, welcoming the world with its cheery presence. You don't want to see it. Not only because the morning signifies your leaving, but because, in the daylight, you can see who you really are.

In the daylight, you can't hide.

You wear a tattered old robe; your dark brown hair is matted and disheveled. You smell like sweat and smoke and sex and booze- all for good reasons, of course.

You were with him again tonight. In fact, it's his porch you are inhabiting as he sleeps by himself in his lonely bed. This isn't the first night you had spent with him, and you doubt that it will be your last- he always seems to find you. And, for some reason, you can never say no. You like how you feel in his arms, you like how wanted he makes you seem.

You sigh, trying to forget all of the sins that you have created tonight, all of the similar ones that had slowly added up throughout the past. You put your cigarette between your lips and inhale, loving how the sickly sweet smoke travels down into your lungs, probably already black from all of the times you have chain-smoked. You wonder why it hasn't killed you yet- you wonder why you're still alive.

Why are you still alive?

You dangle your cigarette between your fingers and exhale, letting the bittersweet smoke escape your body, watching as it dances in the darkness that surrounds you. It attempts its lazy pirouettes before it finally disappears, absorbing into the night, leaving nothing behind but it's sweet, bitter smell.

You wonder why you're still here. Why don't you just go home?

Oh, there were numerous reasons why. But which is the true rationale?

Is it because you're waiting for him? Is it because you know that he'll wake up soon, and if you're lucky, he'll need you one more time before he orders you to leave? Is it because, at home, there's no one waiting for you? Are you afraid of being alone again, in that hollow house of the damned? Is that what you're afraid of? Of being alone?

Or is it something else? Is it because you're waiting, wishing? Hoping that perhaps he will change his mind, perhaps that he will want you to stay, despite the fact that his wife is coming back from Seattle that very afternoon? Is that why you refuse to leave? Is that why you're sitting on his deck, getting drunk from his whiskey and killing yourself with your cigarettes?

I guess that you truly do spend your whole life waiting. Waiting for him to come, to call you over once more. Waiting for him to bring out the drugs, his poison, to get you so high, so out of there that you don't even care if the affair means nothing to him. Waiting for him to take you, all of you, until you're drowning in him, when nothing even matters but the two of you. Waiting for him to change his mind, to decide that he loves you after all. You sit and you linger, yet you know it'll never happen.

It'll never happen. So why do you wait?

Suddenly, you feel him behind you, his arms around you. What are you doing out here, he mumbles into your neck, causing you to shiver slightly.

Just passing the time, you manage to whisper back.

He tugs on your robe slightly, and you can feel him smile against the flesh of your neck. Let's go inside, he murmurs. Come back to bed.

You nod, because you don't know what else to do. When he tugs on your arm, you follow, because you know that you have to. When he strips him from your robe, you dare not fight, because it's what you really want. When he utters your name fervently, pleasure pillowing each word, you call his name, too, because you know it's what he wants.

Afterward, you lay together. He holds you to him, your bare body against his, and you can't help but feel so right. You feel as though both of your bare skin are molding together, creating one being, one entity, so that you aren't really sure which part belongs to you and which part belongs to him.

And when he whispers those three words to you, you freeze.

I love you.

You know it isn't true. No, you want to whisper back. You love my body.

And yet you don't say that. You don't let him know that that it what you're thinking. Instead, you repeat those words back, trying to fit every one of your emotions into them, because you know that's what he wants. And, for the moment, you don't care that it isn't real. You don't care that the sun is peeking through the curtains. You don't care that you'll have to leave soon. You don't care that his wife is on her way back from Seattle. You don't care that it's all a lie. Because, all your life, you've been waiting for those words. And for the moment, that's all you really wanted.