Does it matter, though?
Soon enough, I'll be back in my apartment, and it won't matter.
Still, I'm not getting back together with safe, boring David.
He can come if he wants, but he won't find anything he wants to see.
I spend the afternoon getting ready, trying to make myself perfect.
If this is my last night, I want Cassius to remember me.
Want him to regret letting me go.
I want him to look at other women and find them lacking because they're not me.
The dress fits like it was made for me—it probably was.
Cassius doesn't do anything halfway.
The fabric is soft and expensive, something that whispers when I move.
It clings in all the right places while maintaining its modest appearance.
I do my makeup carefully, covering the bruise that peeks above the collar, making myself look polished.
Elegant.
Nothing like the desperate, debauched creature I've become.
But underneath, I'm still marked.
Still his.
Bruises on my thighs where he gripped too hard.
Bite marks on my breasts where he claimed me.
The soreness between my legs makes every step a reminder of how thoroughly he's used me.
I can't eat.
Can barely drink water.
My stomach is in knots thinking about tonight.
About after tonight.
What will I do tomorrow when I wake up alone in my own bed?
How will I go back to my safe, boring life after this?
After him?
I know the answer: I won't. I can't.
I'll waste away seeking something I'll never find again, because no one else will ever understand the darkness in me the way he does.
By six-thirty, I'm ready.
