Inches

It was one of those nights, you know. When you're in some random queen-sized bed, in some random room, in some random sleazy hotel, and some random guy has just left. There had been the most awkward silence after. And it seemed like hours before he finally decided that he should probably leave. He said something was wrong with you. He asked you when was the last time you did this. And you lied and said the last time was two years ago. Although it was really only a few weeks since. And the guy did not question you because you were so bad at it that it was believable.

You extended your arm across that empty space in the bed, wondering what has happened to you. The other guys before, they said you were good at this. Extremely good even, that they did not want to lose you even if they never wanted to get serious with you. So good then. But now something has broken and you... you're left caressing that empty space on that vast bed. Feeling it. Stroking it. Caressing it, and hoping there was someone warm there. Not just any random guy. Someone warm.

And in your head, you run through all the guys you've slept with. Those you can remember. And you realize that it wasn't really them who were cold. It was you. And try as you might, you just don't feel that warmth you used to feel before. You know this, but you can't do anything about it.

So you... You just lay there, hoping that you'll feel a bit more lonely so the scene would be perfect. But nope. That's beyond you now. You're just lying there. Cold. And broken. Unromantic.