We lay together, spooning, my head on your shoulder, wild blonde hair in your face, which you push away good-naturedly. Your arm is draped over my waist, hand creeping teasingly up toward a breast, and I wonder how it’s possible to be this happy. 

An errant thought of him drifts across my brain. I can see him now for what he was- is. A sad, lonely, narcissistic divorced middle-aged man, who took delight in making me feel worthless and disposable. 

There is no anger now, no resentment or bitterness. Where once those emotions reigned, nestled deep in my chest, there is now only pity. He’ll never know how easy a relationship is when you’re open and honest with each other. How secrets whispered in the dark, sharing breath under the cocoon of a plush comforter can transform into promises actually kept. He’ll never know how deeply you can love someone when you pour your secrets into them and when you tell the truth. Or how heartachingly beautiful it is right here, right now, stretched out on the bare carpet of an empty apartment, just received-keys lying forgotten somewhere near the door, and just hold each other, even if it’s only for a few moments. 

He’ll never know our kind of love. The kind that drives you out of the close warmth of your house on a cold and blustery February night, just so you can sit with your miserable girlfriend and brush her hair gently off her face while she’s being treated for a four-week-old ear infection and a perforated eardrum. Love that sends flowers with a message that makes you grin with wild abandon at work, coworkers confused and bemused at your furious happiness. Love that buys you a Harry Potter Lego set and new hiking boots just because. Love that moves across the state for you. 

That’s our love, and he’ll never know this feeling of contentment. Bliss and pure, aching desire. So I lie there, listening to my lover breathe, his lips moving against my neck, his heart thrumming in tune with mine, wanting him and pitying the other.