"He passes the cigarette to me and looks away, letting the sunset kiss his profile and make him look like a still from a French movie, which is probably exactly what he’s going for, but it still works. The day has cooled and now the air is the exact same temperature as the blood that’s slowing it’s race through my veins. I slump against him and feel his body stiffen almost imperceptibly. He has five more minutes and then he really has to leave…and besides, sex never seems to relax him, nor does anything else.
I look in through the open window back into the room: the rumpled bed, my crumpled sundress. And then I look back at this guy, shirtless and with hardly any chest hair, and I understand suddenly that this is the last time I’ll see him like this because doing this, again, with him would be like if you found a long black hair—not even a hair, a Band-Aid, a fingernail—in your lo mein and picked out the gross bit and kept eating. You’d have to be pretty hungry to do that."