You were on the bus, sitting by yourself, reading some news articles on the current state of feminism and some assault case at some bank. Then you got to thinking of Harry, your boyfriend. Well, sorta boyfriend. You were on-off, like a faulty light switch. Do how did he manage to fuck up this time?

Well... he was really supportive your work, cooked all the time, ran baths, vacuumed. He'd laugh at your jokes. He was great with my family. Your friends loved him. Your sister once he said she liked that cheesy song he wrote for you. God, he was so fucking affectionate.

He used to say things like, "You're not like the others. You can keep up." But did you? That's something you thought to yourself a lot. He was a man who threw himself at you, but you just didn't seem to care. He was perfect and yet, you didn't want perfect. You were apathetic, he was emotional. You were cynical, he was sensitive. You were chaotic, he was soft. He was... everything you weren't. And someone that made you love him more. Is that why it ended?

You had your own problems, like all people do. Harry tried to be supportive - by God, he did - but for some reason, maybe because of said trauma, you just pushed him too far. And then you pushed him far away. But then you went back to his flaws.

Harry, at times, saw basic decency as prize-worthy, constantly throwing the support he gives back in your face. He was controlling at times, acting crazy to virtually everything you did. He could be a condescending knob, whose misogyny and biases leaked through like tannins leaching into tea, slowly bittering everything he said and did. For some reason, he thought of you masturbating as this personal offense to him.

But, to you, that was you exerting your sexual rights as a human being. He was asleep next to you when you started to play some speech of Obama's. Once the coast was clear, you put your hand below the blanket and started to touch yourself, even dropping the pizza crust you were munching on in the heat of the moment.

Despite your efforts to quiet yourself or have the former President drown you out, Harry awoke. "What are you doing!?"

You shut the laptop quickly, acting dumb. Harry got be prudish and naive, but he wasn't dumb. "I was watching the news," you lied.

"Oh really, what was he talking about, then?" Harry countered. "Please. I need to hear this. What was he talking about? He said, voice breaking a bit.

"Iraq?" You lied.

Harry was started to pack up his things, even lotion and condoms, and then stopped, trying to not cry. "Please don’t stop me from leaving, please don't."

You just nodded, not even paying attention to his words, as he rambled on. "Don’t say anything. And please don’t contact me. Or turn up drunk at my house in your underwear. It won’t work this time."

"It will," you couldn't help but make the snide remark. He threw on his pants and coat at that. "...and I'm taking the posh shampoo," he added.

You added how much Harry committed to your breakups. When you got home from work the next day, you saw he stripped everything of his from your apartment. He's even gone a few miles, cleaning the whole place at one point, like a crime scene. You even considering timing a breakup around the time it needed some spring cleaning. But he always leaves a little T-Rex, a toy from his childhood, to come back for.

For now, you sat alone in the bus, thinking about all the people you can had sex with now. You weren't obsessed with sex. You just can't stop thinking about it. The performance of it. The awkwardness. The drama. The moment you realize someone wants your body. Not so much the feeling of it.

Probably got 48 hours before Harry runs back, and probably going to spend half-an-hour to make yourself look amazing. Gorgeous. Fresh-faced. Little bit sexy. But all the work got you were some fuck me eyes from a rodent-toothed man on the bus. You weren't that desperate... right? 48 hours later, you sat at your apartment, waiting on Harry, holding that toy dinosaur in your fingers.

He'd be back.

He had to come back.