"I need to be more like you," she says. "I've become hardened over the years. I've forgotten how to be kind. I used to be like you, when I was your age, but I've become conditioned to come in, solve problems, get out." She looks at the last drops, consumes them, and orders another glass.
This is after she's spent the night stealing glances at my cleavage. This is after she's asked about my scars, after she's told me we have similarly forceful personalities, after she's told me I'm "the best person at this job [she's] ever worked with" and before I explain to my boyfriend that my boss/role model/favorite considers me one of her favorites, too.
I tell boyfriend I'd like to fuck her.
"Not really," he says, and I look at him for a long time. He explains, "You don't really want to fuck her. You like the game. You like the chase. You like the cat and mouse."
I pause, consider this, and he isn't wrong. This is what I do with the women in my life. I play with them until the game is over, then I discard them.
I try to deny it.
He stops me.
He always does.