Black-in

His eyes snapped open, amazed to find himself in bed , half his face squashed against the pillow. It’s a miracle he doesn’t have a hangover.

I have become a pro at this, he thought. Now if I could remember…

Fuck

It all started coming back. Well, everything before the huge blank. He had told her he loved her. What? All those fantasies he ran in his mind about how invincible they would be together, never thinking they meant anything, had all spilled out. He’d told her about the future.

Fuck.

The future? Her restaurant, his app, and living in South Korea for a while. Those were just thoughts and now she knew, and perhaps it appears he’d been planning this all along. They were all daydreams, mere fantasies, didn’t mean anything, merely imagining possibilities. That is what he did, think about possible things. He didn’t love her.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand. It’s off. Did he use the word love? No, he is too clever for that.

Kudos on keeping it vague, he thought sarcastically. Yeah, feelings is a far softer word.

Can he get out of it, say he was drunk and didn’t mean anything he said? No, that’s too embarrassing. Should he just pretend he never said it? That’s a bit cold, but he can do it. He’s good at that, done it before.

No, he thought, if I’m not going to stop drinking I should start living with the bullshit I pull when I’m drunk. I should own it. Can’t live a life where I pretend the shit I do when drunk doesn’t count or happen, because it sure counts to somebody.

He’d never felt anything resembling love or feelings for anyone in over seven years. Well, except that guy at the store he keeps staring at, that sure convinced him he’s perhaps not as straight as he thought. But feelings? No. He was cold. He even proposed to her in a cold pragmatic manner, like he was pitching for one of his projects instead of a life.

He smiled, a wave of acceptance coming over him.

Would it be so bad if we were together? he thought, coaxing himself into another…

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