Mentorish

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"I love. What I see. Of myself. In you." He stumbled through it just like that, sitting on the corner of his bed. Part of his plaid, very soft comforter was balled up in one hand. 

She reached out and put her hand over his, which felt awfully mentorish. "I think you could do better than me though."

He thought about saying, let me decide that. But it felt cliche and not unlike a therapist maxim. So he said nothing at all and watched as she slipped her bra on. He felt tears welling up and repressed the urge to run his index finger along her thigh vein. The one that popped well out of her pale skin. 

He thought about trying to be grateful at least for the time they'd had together. The cliff jumping. The long walks in Galveston. That one time she'd popped a champagne bottle, scaring him, and how her drunk ass had offered sex to "make up for it". 

But as he watched her putting her shoes on now he felt pissed. She'd wasted his time. But then he realized he was doubly pissed because he was the one used to wasting people's time. He hated that the tables were turned on him. Perhaps karma had caught up. 

She picked up her phone and opened the Uber app. She didn't look the least bit concerned. He recognized the indifference because he was that guy. He knew how it felt to be completely loved and unable to reciprocate. He knew all the justifications. Right now she was probably telling herself, I told him what this was. If he thought this was more than friends with benefits, that's on him. Right now she was telling herself that she was doing him a favor by leaving him before his feelings got "too strong". 

God he hated himself now. For doing this countless times before. She walked to his front door and looked back at him. There was a question in her eye. Was he not going to walk her to the leasing office? He chuckled inwardly. 

She'll be alright.

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