In front of me sits a canvas, one that's left a sense of dissatisfaction in me, just like they always do. The room around the sleeping woman on the bed was fine but the paint didn't do her justice. No, there's no media that would be able to capture her beauty the way I remember it, the way it's embedded in my brain.

I cross my arms frustratedly as I look around the room at all the other sketches, paintings, and all different sorts of media, that tried to portray Monica's likeness. I'd once thought I was a talented artist but I'm not so sure about that anymore. None of these are even remotely good enough.

My sketches of anything other than Monica are all lacking these days. I mean, yeah, I suppose they're good. My customers are still satisfied but there is something that doesn't quite resonate with me in the passion department when it comes to creating. Art is my way of letting out emotions, a way to express myself nonverbally, and it's clear what all of my emotions revolve around now.

I put out my cigarette in the ashtray that sits next to my current work of art. I wipe my hands on my pants, not caring that I've just smothered them in paint. My phone pings and even though I know it won't be her, there's a small part of me hoping that it is. When I see my father's name flash up on the screen I roll my eyes.

I unlock my phone but ignore his text message, clicking over to social media instead, specifically Monica's. She hasn't really posted much over the last month, just a few selfies here and there at certain tourist spots. She is as beautiful as ever, her eyes looking full of life these days, much like they had when we first met.

I hadn't been expecting to find anything new, or of much consequence really, but I am surprised to see a new post. I click on the picture to get a closer look. She's standing in front of some restaurant with a giant smile on her face, holding her arms out with another male, one that probably has ten years on her.

Something like this usually wouldn't bother me, because he's clearly not a student, but I don't particularly like her closeness to the tall, fit gentleman. My brow furrows as I try to pinpoint why their closeness leaves an uneasiness in me. I look him over once more and then scroll down to read the comments.

Lucky, you're abroad with the hottest professor of all time.

Omg, girl, no wonder you wanted to go to school in Virginia.

If it isn't the infamous Professor McFuckMe.

That last particular comment was from Marcella. My jaw ticks thinking about how she probably encouraged her to go on this trip. She'd probably been referring to him as much the whole time too which lead me to another thought— did Monica want to go because she thought her professor was hot?

No, that doesn't sound like Monica. She's not like that. But what if she's like that now? You did awaken an entire other side of her, a sexual side. Shut up inner-self.

I hate how much my own mind fucks with me.

I scroll through more of the same type of comments, all talking about the attractive professor, apparently this is a well-known thing at their school. I'm not jealous of the man's looks but the comments, along with the previous thoughts still in my head, make my stomach roll. When I see the very first comment made I want to chuck my fucking phone across the room.

CarterKennedy: Wow, babe, you look like you're having a great time! Looking beautiful as ever, can't wait to hear from you. xx

I close my eyes and count to ten, thinking that I will somehow manage to calm down but that doesn't really work. No, it doesn't work in the least. I launch my phone across the room, shattering the screen. A slew of expletives leaves my mouth as I pick it up and assess the damage. Yeah, I'd royally fucked it.

With a sigh, I leave the pictures of Monica behind. I grab my keys, lock up, and jump in the car because now I have to buy a new fucking phone.

✩✩✩

I'd taken Vikki's advice and gone out on a date tonight. I, apparently, needed to do something other than wallow for the weekend of my twenty-first birthday. According to Vikki, going out with a 'smokin' hot girl' was supposed to be the remedy.

She'd said the girl was perfect for me and I trusted that since her and I have the same taste in women. Even though I had told her it didn't matter how perfect someone could be for me, they wouldn't be Monica, she had convinced me that it would help take my mind off of her. So, I'd agreed to going on a date and let her set it up.

The girl, Amanda, was nice enough and she was also a tattoo enthusiast. She had a lot of ink, some designs she'd even done herself, as she was an artist as well. On paper, Amanda and I should've hit it off smashingly but I just wasn't into her, not even a little bit in the way I was intended to be. Maybe we would have hit it off if my heart didn't already belong to someone else; my estranged wife.

At the end of our dinner we'd decided to go have some drinks at the bar. I'd admitted where my head and heart currently lie, and with whom, which is why I seemed so uninvested in our date. She'd appreciated the honesty and that I didn't lead her on. From the way the evening ended, I'd say I managed to make a good friend, but nothing more than that.

My phone rings as I pull into my driveway. I park my car and fish it out of my pocket then immediately feel my heart spasm when I see the name flashing across the screen. I swallow the giant lump in my throat before picking it up.

"Hello?"

"Hey." I close my eyes at the sound of her voice. I haven't heard it in months. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks, but it's tomorrow." It's almost midnight but still.

"Well, it's already tomorrow for me." She lets out what sounds like a nervous laugh. "I, uhm, I wanted to be the first one to wish you. I'm now realizing I probably should've just waited." I don't know what to say to that. There's so much I want to ask, so much I want to talk about, but we haven't had a proper conversation since the last time we saw each other. "So..."

"So?"

"How was your day? I guess it's actually night for you right now."

"Yeah, my night was fine."

"Do anything special?" Of all the fucking nights she wants to talk. Of all the fucking nights she wants to know what I've been up to. That's the fucking universe for you. "Boston?"

I debate whether I want to tell her the truth or not. I rest my head against the back of the seat and look up at the roof of the car, deciding the truth was the best way to go. "I went out on a date." We're both quiet for a solid two minutes. "Vikki set it up."

"I'm sorry for interrupting your evening. I should probably let you get back to it, then." Her voice is heavy, thick with emotion, and it makes me feel like pure shit. "Happy birthday."

"Wait, Monica, don't hang up yet." I pull the phone away from my face to see if she's still there because it's so quiet I thought she'd hung up. "I think we should discuss this a little bit more."

"What is there to discuss? You're dating. No strings, remember?" Her voice strained over those last few words.

"The date didn't go well, if you really want to know. I'm still in love with you. That hasn't changed."

"Then why are you dating?"

"Because Vikki thought I shouldn't spend my birthday weekend sad and alone. So she set me up with a girl she knows."

"Oh." She still sounds a bit choked up.

"I wasn't into her like that, though." I don't know why I'm trying to pacify her.

"If you were into her would you have, uhm," she doesn't finish but I know what she wants to ask.

If you were into her would you have had sex with her.

"We never really had that conversation in particular. We said no strings but having sex with someone else is an entire other thing than just being separated. So, to answer the question I know you want to ask, no, I wouldn't have had sex with her. But I'm not going to lie to you, I do miss having sex." Specifically with her but that's not an option.

"Yeah, I miss it too." There's a long, pregnant pause. My mind is in the gutter and I wonder if hers is in the same place. "I miss you." It's said a lot softer, making my disgusting thoughts get even more filthy, thinking about her breathy moans and gasps.

"I miss you too." I close my eyes, gripping my steering wheel in agitation, I need to clear up this particular part of our situation. "So, during this break of ours..."

"Yeah?"

"What's your stance on sleeping with other people? Do you want to have sex with other people? Is it okay with you if I do?"

"I haven't talked to you in three and a half months and you're asking me what my stance is on you sleeping with other people?"

"I'm asking you what your stance is on both of us seeing other people, potentially sleeping with them." She seemed to not be okay with the fact I went out on a date tonight. So I'm curious but she's quiet. "What's the deal, Cherry? You need to let me know. We need to make this clear."

"If you want to fuck other people, then by all means, go right ahead and sleep around."

"That's not what I'm saying I want to do. I'm saying if the opportunity presents itself are each of us allowed to pursue that without the other person holding it against them?" Thinking about someone else touching her the intimate ways and places I have is enough to drive me nearly mad.

"I don't like thinking about you dating and having sex with other people, Boston."

"Yeah, I don't like thinking about you fucking someone else either but we're technically not together right now. We don't even talk anymore."

"Who do you think I think about when I close my eyes and touch myself?"

"Elvis," I tease and I can see her rolling her eyes in my head.

"Yeah, tatted Elvis, I think about you. That still hasn't changed." I close my eyes and picture Monica touching herself. "Where are you?"

"Sitting in my car, parked in my driveway. You?"

"I'm laying in bed." Her tone is suggestive. "I'm thinking about you, wishing I was there to wish you a happy birthday." Fuuuck meeee.

"Is that so?" I open the car door and quickly make my way into the house. "You wish you were here with me?"

"Yeah. I may or may not be thinking dirty thoughts now."

"You're killing me. You do know that, right?" She giggles at that and I'm stripping out of my clothes like they're on fire, hoping this conversation goes where I think it's going to go. "You thinking about me?"

"Always." She lets out a deep sigh.

I crawl into bed with excited anticipation and although I don't want to say it, I do anyway, "you know this is probably a really bad idea, baby."

"I know. I don't want you sleeping with anyone else... not yet."

"Not yet?"

"No. I still want you thinking about me."

"You're all I think about."

And with that, she starts to talk about dirty things, things the two of us have done together, things I long and ache for more than anything. Things that I know will make this situation between us that much more complicated.

A/N:
Happy Hump Day!