Maria is beautiful. Tall and strong with dark brown eyes and hair, she moves like she's was going somewhere. The first time I saw her the dead thing in me came alive again. I can't believe I lived for so long without it.
I know how it's going to end but I don't care.
Women seem to like me. I'm not handsome, and I don't have money or the promise of any, but they seem to like me anyway. I used to wonder why but not anymore. What I think about these days is how cold they've become. In the old movies, the black and white ones, they were warmer.
Our encounter: We work together, and though it takes months I finally get the nerve to tell her how I feel. She doesn't reject the idea. She just wants to be with me. Maria is married but we don't think about it, we make small talk instead and laugh, just happy. She likes my confidence and the attention—I just do it for her, as they used to say.
We are smart and we are careful and no one finds out about us. There is only the now, and being together. Tomorrow will never come.
But I've always wanted more and so I push it, queering the deal. She doesn't believe. What's love? her eyes seem to say, and they wander, and suddenly they look empty to me—we fall apart and there's this aching hole I can't fill anymore, and so it's back to the big lonely for me.
Why do I always pick the loveless ones? Because they're beautiful you moron.