"Is that all you think about?"

Her disappointment was so evident, large brown eyes wide with disbelief, as if she had expected more from a man who had loved her straight for three years, and as proof slept around with any girl that even resembled her. It was so pathetic. She deserved far better than him. The only thing he could do after three arduous years was wrap his arm around her naked waist and try to get into her pants. But she pushed him away every time. She was so innocent, it was ridiculous.

And he hadn't remembered much, but what he did remember was so clear and sharp, embedded in his memory like scorched fire marks he hadn't the heart to erase. How long would the memories last? A week? A month? A lifetime?

He highly doubted. It was nothing spectacular. But he felt the softness of her skin and the waves of her waist, curving elegantly like the neck of a swan. It was real, he thought. But it passed so quickly and was so unplanned; he spent precious time debating the definition of a dream.

Did she remember the same things he did? She brushed it off easily enough in the morning. Not a word about the night before. It hurt him, to think he could have such little impact. His heart swelled and fell. He advanced through all the morning rituals quickly enough, but he hadn't the heart to look her in the face. He felt used, defeated, for the first time in a long time. For a moment he wondered if this was how the women he used felt like the day after. He imagined so—and he instantly hated it.

But in the morning another thought popped into his mind. Did she behave this way with his brother? If it had been him, would she have let him caress the skin that lay hidden from the world? She was drunk then, incredibly so. But it stung a little each time, pin prickling at the heart like he never could have imagined. Then again, he always had a girl by his side, a girl to take to bed afterward. It was inevitable, he was just good at what he did. But his brother—his brother wasn't. But she had crawled into bed with him. Fuck, he heard everything in the next room. Could it be that he wasn't good enough? Did his brother posses some sort of inexperienced charm?

Why hadn't he been the one to kiss her?

He hated himself to think about it. And it scared him too much, his legs trembling with the possibilities. Too late for that now, though. It left a bitter taste in his mouth to know that he could have been the one to wake up to her face in the morning, the one to press her arms against the headboard…the one to whisper to her in the dark.

And here she was, dressed, staring up at him with those beautiful huge eyes of hers. Her reflection in the window of the Wendy's restaurant was what he was staring at. He felt it, he saw it. There was an incredulous voice, and no, she hadn't expected that it was all he did think about.

The truth was, he did. He thought about it most of the time. The small creep of shame had trickled its way into his mind. He hated his weakness.

"No of course not," he answered, but it had no conviction. His leg was trembling. He was nervous.

Averting his eyes, he got up without a word, feeling her eyes trail his back as he walked over to the napkins.

"Hey," he said to the cute girl grabbing ketchup by the handfuls. Made a joke and got her laughing. Noon, and it must've been some record. Got her name, was getting her number. He walked back to the table, looking self satisfied. He didn't look back once, but felt the wave of disappointment and self hate radiating off her.

She must've seen everything. Great, he thought. It was perfect. If he could flirt this early in the day, of course it would've have bothered him, the false semblance of actually caring for a girl the proper way. False sentiment was his specialty, she should've known that. Convince her, and everything was good to go. No awkward conversation concerning the recent night.

"Well anyway, it doesn't matter," she said, finally, resurrecting the tidbit of conversation he hoped toss off with a shrug, his vivid evidence of apathy. He watched as she began picking at the crumbs that managed to fall to the table. Brown, against mustard yellow table. Fingernails bitten and raw.

He had won. It was a useless victory, but he had shrugged off the self pity and managed to pin it on someone else.

"Great," he said, reaching for the burger, feeling its juices running down his chin and enjoying the weight of a number settling in his pocket.

He could forget easily enough.