I've known him for a few months. We're drinking red wine and chain smoke cigarettes on his balcony. I play my favourite bands to him on my phone, lean over the edge of the balcony as I drag in the poisonous smoke and smile at him. He doesn't notice at first; his eyes have wandered down from my neck, along my spine, down to my derriere. He is 43 and I'm 19. Even if he was 10 years younger he would be considered too old for me. But I like his eyes on me. I lean over forward even more, make the short skirt reveal even more, smile for myself as I feel his gaze. His daughter is 3 years younger than I, but in spite of that I will in about an hour find myself in his bed and his lips will meet mine and and he will wrap his hand around my neck and I will love it because I trust him. I will let him take off my black, tight tank top and lace panties, and he will give me all the attention I've been craving the last few months.

He says that falling in love is a choice, and I ask him to choose not to fall in love with me. He says okay. And when he says that, I get it. He gets it.