[female version — scroll for male version!]

The moment Arthur laid eyes on you in the casino, he was drawn to you. What was someone like you doing here, in Atlantic City? Of course this place attracted all types, but you… there was something different about your energy. Softer, kinder — something that did not belong.

You were the kindest, most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. So soft-spoken, so sure of yourself in a very bashful way. He could tell you were escaping something but… he didn’t know what yet.

All the meals he shared with you thus far had been magical. You reminded him so much of his mother, whom he missed so dearly. You were like a reflection of his inner self; his inner child. He felt as though he needed you.

Last night, you’d rescued him. Maybe he was drunk, maybe he was high. But he was strewn out beneath the pier, out of it, wet and cold and covered in sand. You’d picked him up and carried him to your hotel room. He’d begged you not to leave him. He’d begged you to help him.

He’d been a terrible son to his mother. No wonder he never saw her, even though it was likely she missed him. He never wanted her to see him again. He was too fucked up.

You’d taken him to your hotel room, taken off his wet and sandy clothes and hung them up to dry, towelled him off. But in the one moment you were looking at something else, he slipped away and into your bed. He was out like a light in nothing but his underwear very shortly. You had no choice but to tuck him in.

The next morning, you awoke him by opening the curtains, telling him he had to get up. He felt like a middle schooler again, his mom tapping on his chest gently to move him out of slumber. He squints against the light, asking what time it is. You point out the shoebox at the foot of the bed. You tell him you bought him shoes.

He leans forward, assuming he didn’t hear you correctly. “What?” He asks. Then he doesn’t wait for you to repeat yourself. “Why did you buy me shoes?”