It's not like I do it on purpose, you know. It's not like I intentionally, honestly meant to walk over there and pull all of her hair out and bitch slap her to next month. But you do these things to me, baby, you make me crazy. You make it so I can't stand to watch you talk to other people. I can't even bear it when you're not around me.

You know what I do when you're gone? I wait and sit by the telephone – yes, that old cliché, I swear, it's true – and hope that you're going to call me soon. Every so often, my eyes flicker over and I pick it up to make sure the dial tone is still working. I'm afraid you won't be able to get through because I am unaware of a silly problem such as my server not working.

When you do call, and sometimes they only come after three horrible days of waiting, you're antsy and fidgety. Or, at other times, you're as cool as you ever are; I can hear you dragging and exhaling those menthols you like to smoke (even though I know I'm annoying when I remind you all-the-fucking-time that they kill you even faster than regulars). I like to imagine you on a balcony, leaning up against the side of a building, one leg on the rail, one just dangling haphazardly over the edge. You are always in short-shorts and a wife beater. You are simplistic, elegant trailer trash girl.

Sometimes you come over. Sometimes we end up in bed, rolling around with our legs sweaty-sticky on each other and sometimes our dark hair blends together so that I can't tell where you start and where I begin. Other times, the better times, we end up in the bathtub and we're slick with desire and soapy water and you are inside me (as much as you'll ever be) and right when I'm near the edge, you are gone.

Always gone.

You're up and away with foamy bubbles stuck to your slender, athletic body and all I can do is stare, hazy and fazed, at what is going on. It never gets old to us. This game.

I follow you around in circles, my nose to the ground and eyes downcast or even blindfolded, until you have slipped away into the air and left me aching with want of you and crazy at the mystery of your disappearance. But I guess that's just your way, isn't it? I should have known from that first nickname you gave me; 'pup', you would call me, and I would look at you and preen under your attention. I adored the time you would walk into my apartment unannounced and pat me on the head as I sat staring at you. 'Pup', you would say as you meandered into my kitchen for a drink, 'I've had a really hard day today.'

And that was my cue. You trusted me because I never asked what happened that made your day so hard, I was merely concerned that you were upset now. That you needed me. I would pop in a movie (merely for appearances) and wait for you on my couch, shoving my cats off my lap and waiting for you to come back out of my kitchen. Sometimes, you'd stay so long that maybe I had just dreamt you had come at all. But then, like an apparition, you are dive-bombing me and forcing me into the couch, your bony hips at the juncture between my legs – grinding, and your mouth is forcing me into submission. All I can do is moan in the back of my throat and pull-push on your body shoulders and let you take the lead.

We were our own dirty little secret. I thought I was your something special, the one that you would turn to when you needed someone who would keep your secrets about you – you – being weak and needful of somebody else. After you would leave, I would lounge in wherever we had been and bury my face into its smell. I had you memorized. I would touch the bed/couch/blanket/bottom of the tub as if you were still there, my hands gliding over your supple curves and my mouth twisted into a facsimile of a smile. Dreamy, nonchalant, I would be stuck in a fog until I heard from you again. Only with you was I lifted out of it, lifted into clarity. I felt fucking alive with you, goddamn it.

So when I see you chatting up another woman, because you actually – for the first time – brought me out into your world with you, yeah, I'm going to get a little crazy, darling. I can't see straight. But the thing that really makes me hot? The thing that really makes me utterly insane and insatiable for you? Is when I see you smiling at me – that secret smile you save just for me – as I'm being taken away in handcuffs (assault is such a strong word). You wink and mouth, "I'll come get you".

And I know you will.