Hit the Floor

"You do know right, that you don't want him", he says, twirling the ball on his fingers, bouncing it away from me.
"Fugg off", I say eloquently, trying to snatch the ball away from him.
He dodges me laughing and jumpshots it into the ring.
Score.
Bastard.
"You're in love with the Idea of him, baby girl", he's in his element now, swerving through imaginary opponents, smirking for a silent audience.
"I am Not", I counter defensively, digging my nails into his arm.
He yelps.
"We think alike", I say snidely, unable to tell apart the thud of the basketball from my heart. What if, when you lie, you body doesn't give you away by tell-tale signs like your nose growing, it hurts you by keeping silent and shriveling up instead?
"Find me more people who think like I do and..."
"Hey", he says smiling, he's closer now, too close.
Where's the damn ball.
"I'm right here", he whispers, aii not you goddammit, the ball.
And then he's kissing me and I can smell his sweat and his thoughts and that sweet cloying scent that belongs to him alone, and to my past. Revulsion rises in my throat stealing me of the little humanness I have left.
"I don't want you, I want him", I'm crying as I shove him off me. The ball is miraculously in my hand. It isn't warm anymore, I can't hear it's heart beat.
He smiles sadly.
Sweat and tears mingle down his face and I can no longer tell the difference. I mirror him. I turn away.
"And you'd let Him kiss you?"
I don't answer.
I arc the ball into the basket.
It misses.