Memories, Lies

This afternoon it was raining. Atlas and I went up to his bedroom and opened the window. I rubbed his back and his neck, and then we made love on top of the covers.

I thought about the first time we hung out, how we went up to your bedroom the next morning. It was raining and you had the windows open, and you sang "Hey Jude" as you rubbed my back.

Afterwards I wished we had cigarettes. I wanted nothing more than for Atlas to smoke with me, lying back on the bed and blowing smoke at the window screen. We always lit cigarettes after we fucked, like something out of a novel or a movie. You had a small, handmade clay ashtray on your side of the bed. I can't remember if I ashed on the floor or not.

Atlas will never smoke with me, will never go to a greasy diner and order hashbrowns and black coffee and chain smoke with me. I thought about how, when you were lying to me, it didn't matter what I was wearing or how dumpy I looked, I felt good because you wanted me. You made me sexy. You fucked me and made me a sex icon, Marilyn Monroe in my black tights and combat boots.

Atlas asked me what I was thinking about. I said, "Nothing," and smiled at him.