A Modern Love Story

“How stupid can you be?” she mutters to herself as she douses her skin in powder. “He’s just using you.”

She swirls the brush in the powder, dusting her neck, observing her face in the mirror — rubbing just under her ears with her hands so the makeup blends right. She’s to accompany a young man at his apartment, but she knows exactly what that’s code for. A movie they won’t pay attention to, and a box of condoms hidden under the couch — she’ll try to think up an excuse to say no, but she knows herself too well.

She slides into her favorite outfit, but she doesn’t feel confident. She feels particularly bloated today. She clutches her stomach and her head as a wave of nausea rolls through her. She grips the counter in front of her in an effort to steady herself.

This afternoon, he’d texted her, wondering if she was coming over. Their weekly hookup, he’d worded it, ever so eloquently. She rolls her eyes at herself in the mirror. “You’re pathetic,” she whispers to her reflection, sticking her bottom lip out in a pout. “You’re a disgrace to women everywhere.”

Nothing she tells herself is going to stop her from going over. She wants more than sex, to be valued more than what lay between her legs. Unrequited love. She scoffs at herself — she’s a cliché, and a sorry one at that. He probably has a different girl at his apartment every day of the week, just like a cycle. Monday night is reserved for Julia. Tuesday night, it’s Daphne. Her? She’s penciled in for Wednesday. She’ll remind him that she has to be up early for class, but will still let him talk her into staying late — late enough that she’ll have to sleep over.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, swabbing on a pale pink gloss. She puckers her lips in the mirror.

He lives close by, a four minute drive, and her head throbs with every bump she hits. About a minute away, she pulls her little car to the side of the road, fumbling with the door handle. Her pale pink gloss was all for naught as she empties the contents of her already-empty stomach into someone’s grass verge.

“Oh, God,” she groans, banging her head against the steering wheel. “What’s wrong with me?”

A little chunk of stomach peeks over the waistband of her jeans, a chunk of stomach she’s worked so hard to tone. She lets out an angry cry and pulls on the waistband of her pants, desperately tugging it over her stomach. A loud rip echoes in her head, staring down at a gaping hole exposing her light blue underwear.

Hot, angry tears spill down her cheeks, cutting through her mask of makeup. She stares at her ruined face in the rear-view mirror. She swipes underneath her eyes, pushing on her lower eyelids to suppress the tears welling in her eyes.

She slams the car door closed and unwraps a stick of gum, cramming the pink stick into her mouth to rinse the taste of bile from her mouth. Her phone buzzes, another text from him. Where are you? Hurry up.

She throws her phone into the passenger seat, sucking in shuddering breaths. She signals and swerves into traffic, jamming on the accelerator. He’s waiting for her at the door, shirt already off. As soon as the door closes behind her, he’s shoving his tongue down her throat, pushing his hands under the hem of her shirt.

“Get off of me, Logan,” she tells him, but he doesn’t listen. He grabs her belt loops, tugging her body closer to his. The hole in her jeans rips a little wider, and that seems to snap him out of his stupor.

“Oh, Jesus,” he says, staring at her ripped jeans and her smudged makeup. “Couldn’t you have tried a little harder before coming over here?”

“Excuse me?”

He backs away. “I’m just saying,Charlotte, you look like shit.”

She scoffs, an audible sound flying past her lips. Charlotte’s cheeks burn from embarrassment and anger. Following through on a sudden impulse, she swings at his face.

Clutching his jaw, Logan moans, “Get the fuck out of here, you psycho bitch.”

“You’re just using me.”

“What else would I want from you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know, Logan!” she shouts, one hand on the doorknob. “More than this, I guess. But this loveless existence you have seems to suit you.”

Logan rolls his eyes at her. “I asked you before we started this. I fucking asked you not to get attached. You told me you wouldn’t.”

She shakes her head, clutching her rolling stomach. “That changed. I need more from you. We need more from you.”

Logan stares at Charlotte, at the little bump she tries to hide. With a cracking voice, he whispers, “Get out. I can’t help you.”

His response is disappointing, but expected. She nods and leaves without a word.