They all meant nothing.

Not the one from the night before. Or the one from last week. Not the one who liked to bite, or the one who must have inherited his tongue from a Greek god. Not even the one who came around more than once, the one who tried to mean something, no matter how many times she proved he never would.

Once in a while, though, after the drinking and smoking and foreplay and mindless, meaningless sex, she would lie beside them- on top of them, beneath them, whatever- and pretend, just for a moment, that that one did mean something.

Then she would get up and ask him to leave. It was all just easier that way.

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