She pushed the door closed behind me and then I was alone in the winter dark, standing on the cold cement slab of her front porch. We had just been together in the most intimate way two people can be, physically. And here I was, drained, the wind catching the sweat at the roots of my hair and where my body touched my clothes, dead on the inside.
When we were finished, the feeling was gone, and so was the connection between us. Nothing. Nothing in common besides what a few minutes ago had been bodies tangled, holding on to one another … holding each other down with aggression.
The wind was blowing cold, down from the mountains and across the prairie until it slammed into these neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city — on the outskirts of everything. I had never been to this town. I had driven out to meet her — for the sole purpose of putting our bodies together. And now it was just me in all this strangeness.
This was it, I told myself. I was going to quit this. Break the string of these meaningless connections. I didn’t, of course. There were more. But that night two years ago in the frozen January air was the first time I realized the path I was on was destruction.