Feelings

I met him in the basement where countless dissertations languished under piles of dead skin. He wooed me, kissed me lightly on the cheek, accompanied me to my apartment. My bedroom door closed; we exorcised lingering caution. We finished, satisfied. He requested money. Not for services rendered, he said. But because he needed to get by. I wrote the check, convinced myself of my noble deed. We parted.

He returned again. And again. We repeated the exercise. After the fifth such encounter, I asked him if he felt anything for me. No, he answered. He readied to leave. The towels I had lain atop the bed absorbed his blood quite nicely.