Words of sorrow and perhaps manipulation

I want you.

Why do you treat your  boyfriend in Colorado nice and not me?

Amy doesn't love me anymore.

What's worse is now you don't even want me.

I get drunk to hide the pain.

I can't get over Tammy and I miss her so much.

I want to die.

(He didn't die but sex is his tranquilizer.)

Open your eyes and remember who is lying next to you.

She stood back up and found the strength to find the distance.

(Excerpt from novel)

She shut the window even though she craved the breeze.  He lay next to her, almost lifeless, forgetting who he was.  Did he remember what street he was on, where he started out, how many blocks it was to Trinity Lutheran Church where he used to hole up in the vestible and say his sacraments.  Twenty eight years gone by and there he was, six blocks South on East 3rd Street with his Plan B.  Ayesha was long gone, or long enough gone where her temper would kindle and flare like an ignited Roman candle, enough to burst his temples.  Jane allowed everything.  She allowed him to go where his lips wanted.  With his eyes closed, he could imagine a thinner version of Ayesha but without the manufactured drama.  Jane was not insolent like Ayesha.  Jane was the response to his childhood of despair.  She saw things he never described.  She saw his mother crying on the piano keys when his father made her weep.  The woman who raised 3 boys with a soft hearted Irishman and yet not many understood her.  He gravitated to women for this reason, the veins and encouragement of his mother that thread through his body like one crevassed vessel that could not escape his mind.  So there he was in Jane's bed.  Next week, it might be another.  It was whoever responded, made him feel good, and comforted him like a consoling mother.