It’s not everyday that I fall in love, that the girl I sat with during lunch in high school, the girl with the thick glasses and the awful braces, would one day hold my hand as I puke all the contents of my insides. It’s not everyday that I fall in love with a homely girl who transformed into this exotic beauty. It’s not everyday that as I lie here just waiting to die, the love of my life of fifteen years is out at a hotel room on 5th Avenue fucking some rich asshole, but at roughly 4:20 p.m. today after she would have satisfied this asshole, she would take the cash, and leave discreetly to be with me. I don’t seem to mind the dead presidents. In fact, we are on a first name basis. Thomas, Abe, and George. We all have something in common.
I know her real name. I know she’s a small town girl who wanted to make it big here in the city. How can I not know her? We went to raves and clubs together, even underground fetish parties. We tried to discover who we were and what our place was in this world by pretending to be other people, even people who didn’t know each other. We flirted from afar and acted surprised by each other’s presence, even with the black leather, the corset, and the fetishist whip.
So I have to repeat myself. It’s not everyday that I fall in love. It’s not everyday that I find my soul mate at the age of twelve. So while Samar is fucking every rich man or woman in Wall Street, at the end of the day, I remember that she comes home to me. That at the very end of the day, she comes home to fuck me, not some rich bastard whose fucking dick up my girl’s pussy some afternoon last week could only last for no more than five minutes.
At the end of it all, and at this very moment, especially this moment, I have to remember that Samar loves me, this small town girl from a town nobody cares to know.
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