Found a box of old love letters in the back of my closet. Not from the husbands—those got burned in a ritual that smelled like failure and cheap vodka. These were from a fling with a long-haul trucker named Ray. The man could describe what he wanted to do to my cunt with the poetic grace of a man who’d spent 40 hours alone with his thoughts on I-90. Made me ache in places the DMV has long since numbed.

Sometimes I miss that raw, anonymous hunger. No pretending to care about his day, just two strangers using each other's bodies to scream into the void. He'd fuck me like he was trying to forget his own name, and I'd let him.

Now the most excitement I get is when a customer's file is misfiled. God, I need a cigarette.

(Mood: Nostalgic)