“I love you,” he whispers in between kisses, and she laughs – he ignores it, and she almost lets him, but after a moment she shoves him away instead. No confusion in his eyes; he knows the score.
“Don’t bullshit me,” she says. “You don’t love nobody but yourself.” She laughs again, short and bitter. “Hell, maybe not even yourself.”
Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “You’re drunk,” he slurs, and she rolls her eyes.
“Whatever.” She pulls off her shirt, starts wriggling out of her jeans. “You wanna fuck me, fuck me. Like all the rest.”
“There’s –” and she kisses him again to cut off the lie, and this time he’s the one pulling back. “Shannon, I swear, I –”
“What’s the point?” she demands. “You tell me you’re done, every time, and then you go right back to fucking some whore. You think I’m stupid?”
“No, I’m just –”
“Stop treating me like it, then.” She finishes kicking off her jeans and takes his hand, guides it between her legs. “I don’t need you to love me. I just need you to be here,” who’s lying now, she thinks to herself, but his fingers are sliding under her panties so she just closes her eyes and leans back.
“Just stay,” and he does, for awhile, but when it’s over he’s already making some excuse to go out, meet Patrick, get some money, some dope, whatever.
It’s all bullshit.
She lights up a cigarette after he leaves, exhales heavily.
It doesn’t matter, she tells herself.
As long as he comes back.