his phone rang just as my left leg casually layed on his shoulder, and my right leg over his lap. We were in the middle of laughing or just talking about something he was reflecting on, but nonetheless I listened. I traced the letters on his shirt with my fingers, often running my hands over his tummy and chest muscles. His phone rang just when our conversation was becoming honest and he poured his thoughts into me. He stopped in the middle of his sentence. I felt the mood change. "Who is it?" Although I knew.

Truth be told I always knew, and I wondered if somewhere in her pretty smile somewhere in this world did she as well feel the tugging that was us not being able to share. That ripping that was our hearts whenever we felt he was neglecting his duties, even if he was neglecting both simultaneously. I wondered if she could envision my smile and our laughter, if she would acknowledge our moments to be true. If she'd ever considered maybe love existed elsewhere.

Just as his face consumed wit humor and guilt through the awkwardness, I grew cold. It was as if the tugging had become direct. I felt used and abandoned although I insisted on him leaving. My voice changed as I went into a daze. Maybe the disarray of his belt and pants was unnoticeable, it was possible my smell hadn't smothered him. Meanwhile I sat in my basement branded on my neck. I was stuck with the evidence as he walked away a free man. Nothing connecting him to the scene when 30 minutes before we were connected, intertwined branding each other. Exchanging evidence that would die as it hit the air. Kind of like us. We'd die when reality hit. We only existed in the privacy of my home. That was the only time we could be real. That was the only time we were away from the phone calls, at least that was the only time I tried to be. Then that phone rings and just like that, it's as if we never happened.