• His room is pretty much the worst shithole you'll ever see. He probably knows what's under every pile of dirty clothes, hidden by every dustball or magazine. But all I know is the bed and the area around it.

    The grey ceiling that isn't paint but bare concrete. The crappy little light. How it almost looks blue in the gloom, how his stubble starts and then stops because the stark shadows cut it off and how it's cold. The mattress that's like laying on a rock (laying on his floor) no matter how much it's been used.

    How he's sitting up, staring straight ahead. How even though we seemed pretty close last night neither of us is talking. Or touching. Or even looking.

    I get up first, maybe because I'm closer to the edge of the bed. I grab my briefs and my jeans and pull them back on, scratch my head, and end up in his bathroom. My hands clutch the sides of the sink, and I glare up into the mirror. I've got a little stubble too. Just like him, I look a little mean, a little mysterious.

    For all we know of each other this is a rented apartment. He doesn't live here. These aren't my clothes. I'll go home, gel my hair, and go yachting. He meets his kids and his wife. He pays the bills, for all we know. Maybe not.

    And without that deception, neither of us would be here. It's the blurred story made up from what we say to each other, half lies and half truths that slipped out, together with our own fantasies. It's what keeps us together.

    I'm really a dentist. Or an archeologist. Or an artist. But he doesn't like to think of that because it makes me real. To him, I'm something more rugged, more manly.

    He's not a person but a fantasy. A composite image of everything I've ever wanted to be. The half of his growing beard (the one he might just shave off before greeting his fiancee) that's stuck in the shadow is the part I pay attention to. The part that's on the streets at night.

    My job changes depending on the night. What he does for a living depends on how I feel. (He's a drug dealer. He's a hitman. He's a serial killer. He's whatever it takes to keep me coming back.)

    I shove his toothbrush in my mouth and start brushing. This part of everyone's daily ritual that isn't important to him or me in the night, but today I'm running late and I'm using his stuff.

    This doesn't ruin the fantasy. He is still looking straight ahead, staring at the rock wall in his bedroom. I'm not brushing my teeth. He's not going to make an omelette once I leave. (Don't let it in your head that he's a person.)

    From halfway across the apartment, his voice. "Do you love me?"

    My response is indistinct, muted through the toothbrush in my mouth. This jars him. (Don't let it in your head that he's a person.)

    He repeats. "Do you love me?"

    I spit. Paste and saliva miss their target and dribble down my stomach, into my pants. I wipe off the residue with my hand, go back to his room, put on my shirt. Plain white t-shirt, no bands or logos or anything recognizable. "No."

    "Good."

    My shoes on, I head towards his apartment door. As the lock clicks shut behind me, I block out the sounds of pots and pans getting knocked around. I head down the metal stairs towards my car, clasping my jacket shut against the cold.

    I don't go home. (Just don't.)