This morning, as you’re lying next to me, you look at me with those big, beautiful, blue eyes and ask, “Do you fantasize about me?”

And I’m dumbstruck. I don’t know what to say. Because I don’t.

I cherish this moment—feeling the warmth and softness of your naked body next to mine. The sensations are incredible. I feel alive, and I hope you do too. Your flushed cheeks indicate you do.

And the memories of what we did last night… and again, twice, this morning are as fresh as the morning dew.

I enjoy you immensely. You are lovely. You know how bodies were designed to slide together. You understand pleasure—and how to deliver (and receive) it.

Yet, fantasize? No. There’s nothing there.

Wait. That’s not exactly true. Plenty of my fantasies are truly a vast void. But there is one. There is one girl I fantasize about.

An incredible, tall, brown-eyed beauty. She’s the one I imagine walking hand-in-hand along the beach with. And curled up next to me in bed in the Marriott in Chicago. And exploring Ibiza. And sharing a bottle of wine with at an outdoor café in Bucharest.

Her. Not you.

Do I fantasize about you?

No, I don’t. And I don’t know how to answer your question. Without a lie. You don’t deserve a lie. Yet, you don’t deserve to be hurt either.