Clara
Sometimes I would close my eyes and wonder if he noticed that my breathing wasn't at the same pace as his, if he felt how tense I became, if he could see how my hands remained still, as if they didn't know what to do. He never asked me what I liked, never asked if I was okay, never stopped.
It was as if his need was an urgency that had to be resolved, and once it was, it was all over. He would pull away, turn his back, and the silence would return to the room like a cruel reminder that even naked, even so close, I was alone.
There were nights when I thought the problem was mine. That maybe I didn't know how to surrender myself, that maybe I was broken somehow.
I remember one night in particular. He got out of bed almost immediately, went to the bathroom, and came back as if noth
