[aphelion]

I was on the hustle.

It was early in the evening at dance, and by some stroke of statistical luck or divine intervention there were plenty of girls waiting on the sidelines. True to form I basked in the attention, rarely deigning to offer a dance, usually waiting to be propositioned myself. Of course, I always said yes; the charade was my filtering mechanism for screening out the girls who weren’t very interested.

My fuck kitten was there as well, surveying the crowd. Our erstwhile relationship had progressed, at our oddly mutual behest. We’d spent several days together on vacation the prior week, and had only returned to town the day before; and we had standing plans for the day after. Our relationship’s forthcoming expiration loomed ominously over our time together, seeming to only drive us closer together. I was leaving, after all, and attachment would be disastrous; and of course the very scent of disaster helped that malignant flower bloom.

She was a little bored, and I flicked back to her now and again to keep her entertained while the limp-wristed males of Seattle (I refuse to call them men) dribbled in like the seventh orgasm in an afternoon. That’s when I spotted her.

She’d showed up a bit late, but there she was. Stars in her hair, light in her eyes. The young woman that drove me to Poland in the first place—the very epicenter of my brave madness—was dancing to a blues number with some faceless twit. They’re all faceless twits when they’re face to face with your star-crossed lover, after all.

With the influx of penis carriers, and my fuck kitten now occupied by a more briskly filled dance card, I turned my attention to the crowd, my eye hopelessly catching her. And to my best I ignored her, studiously avoiding eye contact with her while being sure to entertain a pair of new potential conquests. While one—a complete neophyte to dance, with big brown eyes and an excited smile—seemed to eventually get skeeved out by some persistent and awkward attention from the peanut gallery (my guess), the other—a pleasant girl, if plain and slightly thick—found herself enthused at my proposition, and we agreed to make plans.

I ran scenarios through my head. Would she approach me to ask for a dance? What would I say? What did I want out of things now?

I’d made a rather discomforting realization earlier in the week. I’d been hoping to reconcile with her since at least September, according to our infrequent text conversations, and she’d always been ‘busy’. Busy, certainly, but not so busy she couldn’t go to social dance; the straw that broke the camel’s back to end our stunted relationship. If you are not her priority, you are her option; and apparently I was not a terribly enticing option.

A mere thirty-six hours had passed since I’d last savagely violated my fuck kitten’s moral dignity, and the scent of sex lingered in my head long past the hot shower that had succeeded it. Or perhaps it hadn’t been so savage that time. We had lately been prone to deep eye contact, holding hands, and the long and lingering kisses of besotted lovers.

I was sated; desirous, but filled up with the bounty of life, living briefly in the acceptance of plenty rather than beneath the gnawing void of lack.

My fuck kitten and I planned to show ourselves out early, and perhaps that’s why my paramour did not approach. Had she merely bided her time and hoped to catch me later in the evening, as she had last time, an encouraging twinkle in her eye? Had she picked up on my growing distance, and held herself away? Or had she finally found respite from my unwanted affections, and relished her newfound autonomy?

Whichever way, it didn’t matter.

Standing on the precipice of departure, I flicked the screen on my iPhone to unlock it, and did a Facebook search for her name. A swipe later, I quietly severed our connections.