Competition
By Timothy Stillman
We had finished making love. Me to him. His penis warm and becoming flaccid in my mouth. He had not been making love to me. He held me, but he held someone else instead. Later, I said, "I'm leaving." He said, "Of course there's tomorrow night." He was so assured. So smug. "No," I said. "Yes." He demanded. "No." "And why would that be?" "Because I can't compete." "Against who? You are the only one." "That's who." "I don't understand." He tried laughing it off. No. Not this time. "I can't compete with him." "Who?" "Me. I can't compete against me." "But that's you. What do you mean?" "I mean exactly that. I am can't hold a candle to your dream image of me. How could I ever win against someone so perfect and impossible as that?" "But what will you do?" "I leave you to him." I was totally dressed by then and half out the door. "Wait," he called out, still naked. "No." I said the end of it as I closed the door. "It is you who will wait. For the rest of your life. And for all eternity. It is the greatest gift and the greatest curse I can give you. It's because I love you. But you will never believe it. Never." I left him. I would never leave him. Though he would see me no more. I was immortal now. The very worst painful kind of immortal there was. For him. For me. Whoever I am.