Nights Like This

It was nights like this that she hated the most.

When deep longing would lead to dialing and an invitation for him to come over. Her emotions danced somewhere between desire and impending disappointment. She was never honest with him about what she really wanted. Sometimes what he had to give was enough, but most times it wasn’t.

He came when it was convenient for him, usually late at night when expectations were high and the lights turned low. He came not to offer true companionship, but to satisfy his own need for comfort that often intensified during the colder months. Like her, he wanted something warm and filling but often left with the feeling of a hot meal that digested too soon. And thus his cravings for more were never quite satisfied no matter whose home he chose to dine in.

Still, he arrived in a Black sedan with rims that shined with pride.

He didn’t mind investing in what he felt was of value. He kept his girl detailed like the diamond she was.

She would often watch from her window as his white sneakers hit the pavement. He’d check the car then check his shoes before hiking up his jeans and closing the door behind him. Glass in her hand, she’d take a sip of liquid courage hoping it would inspire a goodbye speech to him worth remembering, but usually it would only lead to fuzzy memories of a forgettable evening.

Yet, tonight was different.

This time she wasn’t waiting up for him.

Instead, of “call” she hit edit and delete, popped a bottle of Prosecco, and poured herself a glass— a toast to not settling and finally choosing herself.