Page 67 of That Last Summer

She’s still wearing the bow in her hair, but it’s tangled up in her blonde locks. Why does she have to be so beautiful? Why do her absurd bows and shoes have to suit her so well? They’re horrendous. But they only make her more beautiful, if that’s even possible.

I think her smell is what’s been driving me crazy all night. That smell is so characteristically hers, so intense it gets directly into my nostrils. How can her presence be so strong, considering how short she is? Or maybe it was her fucking dress. Or a mix of both. Shit.

Come on, Alex, stop. She’s not beautiful, her absurd bows and shoes don’t look good on her, nor does she smell delicious, and her presence is not strong at all. Fuck. But it’s true, I don’t even like her. What did I say about her being beautiful? Nope. I take it back. I hate her hair, her face, her freckles, her round nose, her curls, her smell... I hate everything.

Okay, I need to get out of here.

Now.

I see the plea and despair in her eyes. She doesn’t want what’s about to happen to happen, but I can’t do anything about it; the hatred I’ve been storing inside of me for so many years stops me from acting otherwise.

“Fuck. This...” I say as I get up and start looking for my clothes on the floor, removing the condom in the process. I tie a knot in it and toss it into the little blue trash can that sits under her desk. Damn, I know this room like the back of my hand.

“Don’t say it was a mistake,” she begs me, covering her body with the duvet, “I don’t need you to shout it out loud.”

Her reaction spurs me; she’s telling me precisely what I should do to hurt her, and now that’s what I need the most. It’ll probably make me the worst person in the whole world, but it’s a necessity.

“Hey, Priscila,” I say her name, so she can see that I’m serious. I’m not playing games. “I’m sorry, but... this shouldn’t have happened. It was a mistake. I better go.”

“I asked you not to say that. You go for the jugular, huh? What just happened? Why did you kiss me?

“Because you were asking for it.”

“I was asking for it? Are you kidding me?”

And the need to hurt her increases.

“I may have made a bet with my friends.”

“A bet? This has to be a joke.”

“I’m afraid it’s not. You know... men. They noticed your dress and said they could take it off you and, you know, my cocky inner self took over.”

“Oh, such great friends you have who want to fuck your wife.”

“You are not my wi—”

“And among those friends,” she barges in, “do you include River, Marcos and Hugo?”

Shit. Fuck. I think even Priscila notices how I flinch when I hear the names of my best friends. If they saw me now...

“No. They’re not included.”

“I wonder what they would think of this.”

“Are you going to tell them?”

She laughs.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not fifteen years old, which means I left bets and childishness behind.”

I think I’m not fooling anyone by pretending that being cruel to her —showing her all this hostility, hatred, indifference—is satisfying somehow. Fuck, this is so wrong. But I don’t know how to do it any other way.

“What I do wonder is what happened to you. Where is the guy I married?”

“That guy doesn’t exist anymore.”

I look at the paintings on the wall, at my portrait. Or, at least, at what used to be me. A teenager. Shortly after, I married her. You killed him, I want to tell her, but I don’t.