“You love me?” I ask again, sitting back. “Yes.” She narrows her eyes, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Why is this so weird to you? Don’t you love me?” “I’m not sure.” But I am. I’m sure and a half. I’m sure and fucked as a daytime hooker, because loving her brings me no joy. No fulfillment. I’ve come to think of love as a prison guard. Something you resent, not cherish.
