Why do I hate beds?

Because there always has to be a damn story that ended badly with a woman. What woman? What story? Calm down! Don't be silly! You know there is always a story with a woman. Mine - the most recent - in history (and female too, if you prefer, and it's a bit the same anyway), ended up in a bed. Or rather, the beginning of the end was the bed. This item is demonic.

There were no sheets. The mattress, bare and cold, rough to the touch, with a faint rancid odor, and no doubt infested with moths, was not very comfortable. But anyway, the springs were still in good condition. It was already that. And frankly, we didn't care: we were making love. To hell with the rest. The world could die. We would gladly have burst with him, because we were happy. Happier than the rest.

We made love all night. We were taking breaks. It was when we were hungry. We ate calmly, in a silence interrupted only by the incomprehensible howls of drunkards who wandered about the city and vomited their wine under the window. We exchanged a few glances. She also smiled at me sometimes. And her innocent face then was heartbreaking. Then we started again. It was in the dark. She was shy. “Look me in the eyes. You don't need light for you to see them.” That's what she whispered in my ear. It was true: I saw them, his eyes. I felt them rather, posed on me, in love, languid, questioning, black, not very beautiful, but intriguing. It was good.

All night long, I sincerely loved her.

At dawn, breathless and happy, which I was too, she snuggled up against me. Dead, empty, we were lying like this, one against the other, our thoughts wandering. The moon had risen, and the dawning daylight filtering through the shutters had slightly softened the darkness in which we had loved each other all night. I squeezed her very tightly against me, and felt her beautiful breasts press against my chest, which my still quicker breathing lifted and dropped at a very rapid pace. We were about to fall asleep. We were still hungry, but the sleep was stronger. We will eat when we wake up. We will eat with gusto. At that moment, I told myself that I had finally found the woman of my life. Finally one who didn't speak in bed…

Until she speaks.

“You love Me?”

This question makes no sense at times like this.

I had loved her all night. At dawn, after she had spoken, I no longer loved her. Yet I came very close to cherishing her for life. Three unfortunate words stopped me. This is my big whim.

- Yes.

Male liars, my brothers, my fellows, you who understand me, and who would have also answered “yes” in my place, come here, that I greet you and that we go and drink to freedom, to love and to his damned heroes!

It was all because of the bed. It all begins and ends there. The women go there in silence, and then he untangles their tongue. We should never have gotten to it. Cursed be all the beds. Next time, because there will be, I'll choose a sofa.

She fell asleep in my arms. When I wake up, I will no longer be there. She will cry, curse the men, swear “we won't take her again,” and be desperate, disgusted. Her innocent face will then be heartbreaking, again.

And yet, I could have. We would have been able to.

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