Honey

         It’s the way she says it, really. Honey. He hates it. The word sounds like a flower folding out of her mouth. Too much velvet in her tone for even a seven-year friendship. It wouldn’t be so bad, maybe, if he didn’t see the way she moved when Honey asked her to dance last weekend at the club. He held her glass and let them have their one song together, but he couldn’t watch. Instead, he walked to the bar to stop his brain from turning inside out.
         He doesn’t tell her, and he likely never will. The thought of the argument that would follow scares him too much. It would be big and ugly. She probably wouldn’t stay over that night – but if she did, they wouldn’t get to bed until well after three where they would toss and turn and try not to touch elbows. So instead, he watches the television. He says he’s tired and pretends to fall asleep early, even if she’s in the mood to fuck. Especially if she’s in the mood to fuck. It’s better that way – that way he feels like he’s taken something away from her.