Going Through With It Anyway

         I knew the encounter was wrong. That voice in the back of my head, it whispered that I would only regret everything in the morning when she would still be there, hovering around listlessly and asking for a ride home. Every thrusting motion and forged intimate touch would be looked back on with disgust, a shudder even. I would shower forever, scrubbing vigorously.

         But I was bored, grotesquely drunk, and it was so cold outside. There was nothing else to do but sleep and I wasn't ready to give up on the day yet. And although I wouldn't admit it right then, I was lonely.

         Sarah I think was her name, and her body, it was incongruent and unfortunate, her breasts assymetrical. And she was so needy, tirelessly grasping for any form of approval. I knew that she was only confused, was desperate and lonely on a scale that only a girl with an uncaring or absent father could be. She wore it like a scar.

         She hadn't said anything about her father though, I had only met her at the bar three hours before, drunk and alone, like me. And three hours isn't nearly enough time to really know anything about anybody.

         That voice whispered to me again. It whispered that I was ridiculous, this whole situation was pathetic.

         Still, I kissed her, held the back of her head as we stretched out, her back against my living room rug, and I felt sorry for both of us.