By Steven Wolfe

They call it a broken heart for a reason. Something inside me really was broken. She was with him at this very moment, likely in his bed, being touched – I massaged my chest in a dull sort of agony. I thought of her on the floor, wasted; me lifting her onto the couch. "You're like a sack of potatoes," I'd said.

"My dad used to call me that when I was little," she said. "Then he'd rape me up the ass. You can too. I know you want to, everybody else does. I'll just wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For you to be done."

A little later she was lying on her back with her head in my lap. "You're the only one who didn't," she said. "The only one ever. Why didn't you?"

"I'm a hero," I said.

"You're my hero." Her slender fingers brushed my jawline, my cheekbone, curled my hair back over my ear. Three days later she was fucking her coke dealer and a week after that her number had changed.
Steven Wolfe lives in Houston, TX.


Al Tucher said...

Damn. You can't save them all.

Al Tucher said...

Damn. You can't save them all.

Wayland said...

The 'then he'd rape me up in the ass' part was twisted because I did not see it coming. I wouldn't expect a woman with a broken heart to say something so forward. Nicely done.