He

He whispered to the dark room, "I’ve lost her."

He sank his knees into the rough carpet as his fingers wandered across the uneven surface searching for his clothing.

He found a sock, put it on, and continued his recovery mission.

He felt anger stir in his belly as he crawled along, probing for his garments.

He located his shirt and slipped it on, not bothering to button it.

He cursed himself for falling into her void again.

He deserved the pain and guilt that the approaching morning would bring.

He found her pants, tossed them aside, and then found his own.

He swallowed hard as he breathed in the scent of her that had tattooed itself into his skin.

He was putting on his shoes when she returned from the bathroom, sauntering across the room like a cat that had just eaten the family parakeet.

He never found the other sock. It didn’t matter to him. She could add it to her trophy collection that she had gathered from her other victims.

He rose and looked at her. She lit a cigarette, but refused to look at him.

He knew that she was thinking of somebody else.

He had served his purpose and kept her occupied while she was between relationships. Soon, another lover will take his place and he will not hear from her for a while. Diseased pride will keep him from calling her.

He has no words that can save his dignity from her indifference.

He walked out the door, silent in his defeat.

He whispered again to the night, "I’ve lost her."

He heard the night whisper back, "She was never yours to have."

Take care.