“Your opinion of me is based on a whole lot of stereotypes.”
I think about the first night we met, when he unapologetically left me in alone in a hotel room at 4am. The second time I saw him, when we snorted cocaine on his tour bus. I almost laugh. “Your behaviour hasn’t exactly disproven those stereotypes.”
He smiles the kind of smile that gets stuck in my fingertips, shrugs, and says, “You’ll figure me out eventually.”
His statement surprises me. Our time together is always spent in snatches, a constant slipping away of seconds until he’s gone again and I’m cursing his ability to get under my skin. I never thought that I’d know him for long enough to figure him out.
We only meet when we happen to be in the same country, which, given the 12000 miles of emptiness between us, isn’t often. And with no continent synchronisation in the foreseeable future, I’d considered last night to be the last time I would end up in this situation. The last time there would be frantic kissing and cynical laughter and the desperate whispering of secrets - vulnerabilities (me) philosophies (him) and fuckups (both of us).
“Well, you’ll never figure me out,” I sigh, looking away from him and frowning at the ceiling, because these days I can’t even figure myself out. (How did I end up back in bed with him when I know how bad he is for me?)
“I don’t expect to,” he replies. My skin is soft and naked against his skin, and the morning is late and lazy, so I pretend he has said it because he knows how complex I am, and not because he doesn’t intend to try.