C. Calls

Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit

C. calls. Unexpected, yet predictable. Having only just reconciled myself to not seeing him again, it seems somehow fitting and proper that he should intervene in my life again. My first impulse is to break it off before I am hurt any further. Indeed, to date he’s produced way more anxiety and grief than he’s worth. Only my loneliness, that terrible yawning need to touch and be touched, restrains me from burning all my bridges behind me. What’s his game? Does he even know?

Sex is so suddenly tinged with risks so much more palpable and terrible than those which formerly made the whole proposition so frightening. What’s a little nervous breakdown compared to a horrible lingering death from a disease that destroys the body inch-by-inch?

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