I clasp my arms around his neck and no longer feel my skin. We have become one body. I keep my legs stuck around his waist and tighten him even more.

Dorian responds immediately. I seem to have become indispensable to him for a reason only known to him. If I keep him forever as he told me, I'll have to accept that I won't be the only woman in his life.

How far can a relationship like this go?

Dorian is not one of the men you lock into a certain emotional mold. If he ever feels that way, it must be a decision that he will have taken by himself. Our relationship didn't start with the best prospects.

Can such a relationship be saved?

I hate to think when I make love to him. I don't want to think.

Dorian puts his face down my throat and sticks his lips. He gives me strong thrusts, and I notice his clenched eyes. He gets out of me and lets my feet step into the bathtub.

He finishes on my thigh while resting one of his hands on my right and the other on my left. He seems to fall into contemplation and sink more and more without room for return.

I won't let him continue it, and escaping from his hold, I open the water to run.

Dorian tilts his head back and enjoys the tepid water that falls on him. I grab the sponge with the shower gel and create a lather. I start to soap him silently, and he opens his eyes focusing on me. He looks at me keenly as I make circular movements with the sponge on his body.

I can almost hear what he's saying inside his head, but it's not clear. I understand that my silence troubles him, but he has found that I don't like to create scenes.

I know what he did before he came here. He was with Bridget at his house. Elva made sure to send me a message and a photo on the cell phone showing Bridget entering his apartment.

I don't know what could have happened between them. All I know is that Dorian is here with me.

It bothers me immeasurably that he was with Bridget, just as it will bother me just as much when he is with any woman, and I won't know it, but I'll have to put up with it whether I like it or not.

Are you sure you want to be with a guy like that? My inner voice asks.

I tragically admit that no; I'm not sure, no matter how much I love Dorian.

You don't love him. You think you love him. You related him with your need to have someone to love you. You love your need for someone to love you.

The voice inside my head explains what is going on inside my soul in a unique way that leaves no room for objection.

It's good that we humans have our inner guide, something like a teacher I would say, and despite any blur of situations, that voice is there to land us.

Dorian stands under the water and lets the soap suds run out of his body. He gets out of the bathtub and wraps a towel around his waist.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him coming toward me again. He picks up the sponge to do what I did to him, but I stop him.

"Dorian, if you like, get ready something to drink, I won't be long," I tell him and take the sponge from his hands.

He didn't like that I didn't let him bathe me, but he doesn't show it. He comes out of the bathroom silently and heads to the living room.

When I have finished the bathroom, I find Dorian dressed, sitting, and smoking comfortably in the living room. I enter the bedroom to find clothes to wear, and my attention is focused on the speeches coming from the living room.

I keep as quiet as I can to hear Dorian talking on his cell phone.

"All Right, Stephan. Yeah, I get it. They're new chicks who need a job. Tell them to come to my office. They'll take me a blow job each, and then you can put them as potting at the club. I'll leave you, I'll see you later."

He ends the call, and I hear him lighting a cigarette.

I stand still and look down. I feel like they gave me a big slap in the face. My breath is heavy; I'm almost choking. I'm suddenly haunted by a whole bunch of feelings of suffocation that I have to manage in real-time.

Don't fool yourself once more; you heard clearly what he said. He keeps you, yes, but he's also gonna fuck others. It's him, and he doesn't change, no matter how much he likes you, the voice says in my head.

I swallow the knot in my throat and start to dress by making numb movements. He mustn't understand that I heard him. I'm getting back into the trap I hate the most. I'm forced to pretend instead of having the freedom to be myself.

I go out into the living room with crumpled confidence and sit on the sofa next to him. I take the drink he made for me and take it down in one gulp. I conscript all my effort and form a smile on my face looking at Dorian.

"You've never told me about your parents," he tells me comfortingly.

It's a tragic irony that we've been together for so many months, and he's asking me now about my parents.

"My parents live in Montreal," I answer him with a slight smile on my face.

"You're from Canada, then," Dorian continues, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes."

"And how did you get to Colorado?" he begins to ask me questions as if he has learned to remind himself to do it.

From the first moment I met him, he never asked me about my life. We were quickly connected by a passion that absorbed us in its power without leaving room to know each other.

Dorian now gives room to this, that we may talk of things we should have done from the beginning of our acquaintance; he usually spoke only of himself and his wishes, which most people do.

You talk about yourself incessantly as if the other would know you at once in an hour or two of conversation, and you forget to give room to the other to say a few things about his life.

"I left Montreal when I was twenty years old. I came to Colorado to do my practice in court. It was an asset for my studies, you know," I explain to him.

"And you stayed here," Dorian catches me up.

"Yes, I was permanently appointed to the court," I affirm.

"Do you have any siblings?" he asks.

"No."

"You're just like me. An only child," he says thoughtfully.

I move my head affirmatively.

"It's good you stayed in Colorado," he tells me and lights a cigarette. He extends his hand and gives it to me.

"And why is it good?"

"Because I met you. It is as if you should have stayed to meet you in my life," he answered quickly and confidently.

He looks at me with a warm smile. It's the real Dorian in front of me, isn't it? Otherwise, I'm dreaming.

"Really? You're glad we met, aren't you?" I ask him, and I continue to smoke.

"Yes. I love that you exist around me," he responds in a smug tone. "Well, I've got to go, I've got a job at the casino," he goes on, sipping the last gulp of his whiskey.

I know what your job is, Dorian, I think in silence.

I give him a passionate kiss and let him go.

I stay behind and start hammering my head with a bunch of thoughts. I'm thinking about how I was before Dorian, and I have to admit that I miss that Self of mine.