Six months later, in a different city, with a different girl, I was more than three quarters in love. The girl from the bench on Rembrandtplein came to visit me. Her blue eyes were in again. Dancing one night in a club in Picardy Place, she swivelled me by the hip and pulled me close. She edged in towards that long-awaited kiss. Surprising myself, I turned my other cheek. I've changed, I thought as I pulled away.
"Why do you think I came here?" she demanded, but experience told me it was just another test. She wanted to know that she was powerful. She bought me shots and I didn't complain because I didn't mind.
We went home to my narrow room and I slept on the floor. Lay awake on the floor, actually, with a nearly overwhelming, almost vengeful desire to say yes for all the times that she'd said no. I didn't, though. I waited for her to fall asleep (still expecting me, no doubt, to change my mind.)
Then I read until it grew light outside and closed my eyes as she fluttered hers.
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