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I think I might die. Actually, you might die first, by now that doesn’t seem so bad. Your room is freezing, but your skin burns with fever. I’m pushed up against the wall, in your filthy single bed, sweltering under a synthetic duvet. I can’t remember if I should be keeping you warm or not. Which is it? Starve a fever, feed a cold? That’s not right.

I came here to fuck. Took the last of my paid holiday leave, and woke up at six yesterday morning to catch a plane. I thought we’d get high and watch porn together, lazily masturbating side by side. Finally try that role play we’d been late-night texting about, where I pretend to be asleep, and you hold a knife to my throat. I wanted to drink coffee with cream and call you worthless, while I sat on your face.

Instead this morning in the shower you coughed so hard you puked on my feet.

We won’t be seeing each other again. I knew as soon as you picked me up from the airport, and I saw that you hadn’t trimmed your fingernails. There was dirt underneath them. I couldn’t help but take it personally. When we skyped the night before, you said you couldn’t wait to finger my asshole, but one look at your hands told me you must have been lying.

Your bed smelled like piss. You assured me it was only because some girl had squirted all over it last week. I imagine her: pig faced, back arched in ecstasy, laughing about the wet patch. I’m sure her tits are tiny and firm, just like you love. You asked if you could watch me change the sheets naked, slapped me hard across the ass when I bent over to tuck the corners in, but we didn’t fuck. I wanted breakfast. Later that day your fever started, and I cursed the missed opportunity.

I try pushing the covers down, but the cold air stings my sweat-drenched arms and breasts. I’d rather fry than freeze.

My pussy feels damp. Either from sweat or frustration, I can’t tell. I spend a few minutes rubbing my swollen clitoris, but your elbow jamming into my ribs is distracting, and I don’t want to wake you with a shuddering orgasm.

I’ll leave tomorrow. You’ll be too sick to drive to the airport, and the cost of the taxi will make me angry. Two older male security guards will elbow each other and chuckle at the sight of the dildo in my bag running through the scanner. I’ll be seated in the middle, between an ancient emaciated woman and a sweating businessman. The woman will be wearing pearls, and won’t stop sniffing. She’ll pull a handkerchief out of her worn, black leather bag but simply hold it in her hands without using it. The man will try to start a conversation, and I’ll pretend to fall asleep. Daydream about all the sex we should have had. Slip away to the bathroom to quickly make myself cum. Discover it’s no different from an orgasm on the ground, and wonder what all the Mile High fuss is about.

You moan in your sleep, reminding me of my brother’s 30th birthday party, how we fucked in the toilets as my mother gave her speech. The way you whispered that you hadn’t been able to take your eyes off of me all night. I went home with you after the party ended, watched you kick dirty clothes behind a chair, and put a book over the top of a mug with mold growing in the bottom on your bedside table. You tied me to the bed with another woman’s underwear, and said you wanted to see how many times you could get me off. Thirteen. I could smell her the whole time.

I shift the covers over, leaving half my body out, silently laughing. Yesterday I thought I loved you. Tonight I hate you. Tomorrow, missing you.