Accepting Ugly Truths

"Did you miss me, when I was gone?" she mumbles, freshly fucked fatigue blurring her words.

"Of course" he lies; easily, comfortably. They are separate on the bed, an even inch apart from shoulder to knee, sweat drying in the cool air of the flat they share.

"Did you do anything good?" she asks, but doesn't mean it. The response she wants is that life is arid for him in her absence, dusty and desolate.

"Had a drink with Sambo, stayed out all night, strip club, hookers, coke, snorted viagra, into work the following day still in the previous day's clothes. The usual" he deadpans. His eyes flutter slowly closed, then open again, as he battles his hormones to fulfil his role as dutiful boyfriend.

"Steven! You're so bad!" It's the little girl lost voice which he finds so infuriating, which he has learnt to phase out. The can I have a pony, please daddy, please whine that can set a dog's teeth on edge. She giggles and curls up towards him, filling his space with her hair and her heat. Her fingers twirl his chest hair playfully, squared off acrylic nails scraping his skin, raising goose bumps up his body. He grunts an affirmative.

"You always do this!" Her squealing is less outraged than her words suggest, her protest part of a formula they've long since worn into a comfortable groove. He mutters again, fighting a losing battle against the sinking feeling which presses him down, down, down onto the mattress. In the dusky light of the room her smile is almost feral, shadows cast onto her thin, narrow face rendering it all the more vulpine. Possessively she cradles him as he slips into sleep.