I placed my head on your pillow. I had to turn to face the wall instead of your eyes. I thought they would judge me, this tiny speck in your bed, shaking from lost expectations.

I met you on the lake. I noticed you because your eyes sparkled like the water. I found you beautiful in that moment. Beautiful with your ripped shirt and dirty feet. They had traveled many miles in your short years, many more than mine. I wanted to hear your voice; I thought it would be deep and strong. Maybe it would wrap around me and keep me safe. I wanted to be enveloped by it, by you, if only for a moment. Sometimes a moment is everything.

I dared to peek over at you, but you didn't notice. Your eyes were closed, and you were snoring softly. I wanted badly to shake you awake, but I pulled back. Maybe I wouldn't want to hear what you had to say. Maybe you'd tell me to leave.

I walked over to you on that day at the lake. I stood by a maple tree and waited. You spoke earnestly to a girl with blue eyes like yours. You would have had lovely children with her, but I ached for you to push her away. Soon you seemed bored of her-- you kissed her hand and walked away. You went to throw stones in the lake, but you couldn't find any. I picked up a small stone by that tree and walked over. I stood a few paces from you and skipped the stone across the lake. The sound startled you, and you looked over to where I stood. A slow smile crept onto your face. You had a crooked front tooth that drew me in further. Your imperfections are what made you perfect.

You stirred then, and pulled the covers up. Your sheets smelled of you; I buried my face in them while you weren't looking. Your hand was suddenly on my hip, pulling me closer to you. I didn't fight you. Why didn't I fight you?

"Everything okay?" You asked the question as though you felt you should.

"Everything is fine. Just fine." I forced a smile, kissed your forehead, and gave you my back. It was too much work to look in your eyes. The flip-flop of sincerity/insincerity was baffling. I didn't know whether to imagine a cold walk home or candlelight dinners on Valentine's Day. Would you ask me to keep you warm on chilly winter nights? Or would you prefer I slipped out once you fell asleep? I ached to ask, but I knew the truth. I was another girl, someone to keep you warm, but only for a time. One night, perhaps two, then I would exhaust my purpose. I would start wanting to kiss you goodnight and make your bed and cook you dinner. You didn't want that. You didn't need that; it was clear. You weren't one of those men. But I was one of those women.

You asked me how to skip rocks that day. I helped you collect stones and you called me beautiful. I blushed, but you didn't notice. You didn't notice a lot of things, but I didn't care. I told you I loved animals and you asked to me to come home with you. You had a dog, you said, but that is not why you asked me. You were hoping for something you knew I'd give you. You knew by the way I looked at you.

You fell asleep then, and I slid out of the bed. I stood there naked, taking you in. You were art, poetry, and romance all wrapped into one body. But when you spoke, I didn't care. I didn't care because you didn't care. Those sparkling eyes couldn't lie. And I didn't need your truth.

I stepped back into my clothes and gathered my belongings. I wouldn't leave anything here for you to remember me by.

I would remember you, but only in pieces. I wouldn't remember how you spoke to me, or how you felt inside me. I wouldn't remember the smell of your sheets or the way you feigned interest in my words. I would remember your eyes. I would remember them so I wouldn’t have to remember anyone else's.

As I walked down your front steps, I realized I deserved someone whose words I'd want to remember. I'd had my moment with you, but sometimes a moment is too long.