The Mirror (Part 4)

I lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, counting the tiles while he flails around on top of me. I guess I was attractive enough for him. I told him a few minutes ago that he was hurting me but it didn’t really matter to him. He took it as a compliment. He said, “Really?” smiled, and then started going harder. I didn’t know what to do so I didn’t say anything else. He looked over at me, told me that I was beautiful, and pushed my hair away from my face.

I looked back at him, doing everything that I could to imagine Richard. Imagine the way that he would look at me after sex. The way that he would have a slight smile, and I’d be lying on the bed gasping and panting. He would actually care that he took care of me. He was actually beautiful to look at. I could stare into his eyes forever but when I looked over at… I still don’t remember his name. Fuck.

We’ve been dating for three weeks and I still struggle with his name. That should show how laughable this relationship is. It’s not even a real relationship. He’s a fill-in, he’s a replacement, he’s someone that will never ever be my Richard. He’s the person that I used to try to rebound. The hot bartender. You know the one you’re never supposed to get attached to? I end up with him. I’m the dumb girl that dates the hot bartender while struggling with jealousy issues.

I’m the dumb girl that lost the love of her life over alcohol. It’s funny that I end up with the bartender. Part of me wants to blame him because he’s the reason that I started going to that stupid bar. He’s the reason that I started going there nightly. There was something mysterious about him and he worked there. I couldn’t go to the bar and not order something, could I?

I probably could have. It was also a restaurant but for some reason, I have this thing about letting men see me eat until we’ve been together for a while. I have this thing where I don’t want them to know that I’m a real person, I guess. I want to keep up the illusion of perfection, the illusion that I’m some mystical creature that isn’t like anything else they can ever find. I want them to believe that I’m beautiful, mysterious, I’m everything they’ve ever wanted and more. I’m not. I never will be. I never will be everything they want.

I’ll never be beautiful enough no matter how much wine I drink. He looks at me again, “God baby, you’re so beautiful.”... Fuck, what is his name again? I need to remember his name. I need to remember who it is that I’m with. Who I just did the most intimate of acts with. There was no love involved. He’s told me he loves me several times. He’s told me that he wants to be with me, and he never wants to lose me. I don’t even remember his name. I don’t remember who he is. I don’t remember his favorite color, his favorite band, his hopes or dreams, his life, his childhood, his favorite movie, what kind of music he likes even. I don’t know anything about him other than that this is his fault.

I wouldn’t have gone to that bar if it weren’t for him. I told him the first night that I had an addictive personality. I got addicted to things very easily. He then told me that I could have a glass of pinot noir and I would be fine. Or maybe a nice chianti. I tried it, and I loved it. I drank the first glass down that night. He told me his name and that was the first night I blacked out.

I walked home that night. The next day when I went to get my car I thought that maybe he’d be there and decided to stop in. It was my own fault. I knew Richard was waiting for me at home but I stopped in anyway. Richard was always waiting for me. He was kind and patient, he never questioned whether or not I was out with other guys. He never questioned why I came home so late - until about a month into it.

He just stared at me, “You’re drunk again.” I tried to say I wasn’t but instead, it came out in a giggle. I couldn’t stop giggling in order to answer him correctly. I couldn’t do anything. He giggled a little but then, then he told me that he was worried about me. He was worried that I was going to throw my life away. If only he knew what losing him was going to do to me. I chose the wine, he chose the door, and now I choose the broken glass.