So, he clears his throat, you don’t like sex with me much, huh?

He is lying on his back, his hands under his head and he is staring at the ceiling.

He knows better than to look at her. He can feel the glare without turning his face. When she looks at him like this, he remembers being in Sunday school reading about Sodom and Gomorrah and people being turned into a pillars of salt for daring to look.

She had been lying with her back to him, grateful for the king sized bed that allowed them enough distance where she could almost pretend he wasn’t there. At his words, she rolled to face him, glaring, and propped her head up by folding the pillow in half. 

Plucking absent-mindedly at the sheet, she asks, Why do you say that?

You know, you just didn’t seem all that into it and well, you know, you don’t, well, you know…

No, I don’t, she says, sitting up. As she does so, the pillow springs open and one end smacks him in the face softly.

He waves the pillow off and looks at her. She is sitting cross legged. The moonlight coming through the gap in the curtains makes her skin glow.

He has always loved this about her, her complete lack of insecurity being naked in front of him. Most of the women he has been with cover themselves after sex, wrap themselves in a sheet or hurriedly putting on a shirt.

He never understood it. He had just been with them, just been inside them and yet they were embarrassed to have him really look at them.

Not her, though.  Never her. 

You never look at me, he says finally.

She cocks her head to one side, looks him up and down smiling at him and lets out a small laugh, Yes, I do.

No, you don’t. I mean, yeah, you look at me, but you don’t look me in the eyes. You either close your eyes or you look right past me. You never let me connect with you.

You just fucked me, how much more connection do you need, she asks.

She drops her head a little, though, letting her hair fall across her face hiding her eyes from him. She shifts, bringing her legs to her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees hugging herself.

He waits out the silence for awhile. The traffic sounds from the street out front seem amplified.

Why won’t you ever look at me, he whispers.

She flinches ever so slightly, as though the whisper were a slap and shakes her head. I can’t. I never have.

I know, I know you never have, why though?

I don’t mean just you, I mean, I can’t, I never have, not with anyone. Her voice is small, child-like.

He didn’t expect this. He expected more bravado from her, for her to kick him out, to tell him to fuck off. He thinks how small she seems now, sitting there in the moonlight hugging herself, so vulnerable.

He sits up slowly, wanting to take her in his arms and hold her, something she has never allowed before but as soon as he moves she is off the bed, walking away from him to the bathroom.

Don’t you have to be to work soon, she calls over her shoulder.

He hears the door shut and knows he will never see her again.

He will call and she won’t answer the phone, won’t return his messages. He has seen something she never meant to reveal.