He Doesn't Know Me

I’m bowed toward my headboard, face pressed against the sheets of my bed. The soft fabric smells of Tide, the same detergent my mother used when I was a little girl. I still remember the phrase, “Tide’s in, dirt’s out,” printed on the box.  
 
Gravity pulls against my breasts and they rest against the fabric close to my face. I think of my daughter. I think of the men I’ve been with, now blurry shadows.  
 
I conjure up my deepest wishes from the past and move them toward my ass raised high. Kneeling there is a man who paid for the privilege of sharing my bed. I can feel him inserting himself.  
 
We are joined mechanically like two need-seeking machines without emotion. Placing my face away from him into these sweet-smelling sheets helps. I can tell by the way his fingers dance over my back that he’s enjoying the view from there.  
 
Funny what you learn about a man over a couple of drinks. He’s a jittery bundle of insecurity and unfulfilled needs. He’s a successful lawyer who likes to tell corny lawyer jokes. He married his high school sweetheart and has two teenage daughters who are doing well in school.  
 
I think about his family when he moans and pulls out. I know what he wants and turn to the side to meet him. He drops his condom on my white sheets. His eyes meet mine. I’m pleased to see his face twisted in an expression of sexual gratification. I know he’ll remember this moment forever as he watches his cum sprinkle my cheeks.  
 
He bends down and whispers, “You’re beautiful.” I smile but feel the urge to cry.  He doesn’t know me at all. He doesn’t know I have a daughter. He doesn’t know about my ex-husband or lost loves. He doesn’t know that our family has been washing bed linens with Tide since I was a little girl.