It looks pathetic in print, but at the time, my knees turned to pudding. It helped that his voice was steady and soft, his lips close to my ear. That his words were an endearing mix of tender and guy. That he said it at the moment his hands were securely wrapped around the small of my back and his bare chest was pressed against mine; the moment when I'll believe anything a man tells me.
Later, as we lay facing each other, listening to John Mayer, Ben locked his brown eyes with mine, leaned in, and said, "You do good work."
"Your Body Is a Wonderland" played, and I swallowed a gag. I felt like a whore, and when he finally fell asleep, I dressed in the dark and went home.
Ben was a good guy—he did good work, too, while it lasted. He just didn't understand the power that his words, no matter how innocent, could have on a naked woman. How in five simple whispered words, a man can set a woman throbbing. How in 3 seconds and four syllables he can so crushingly disappoint. How easy it is to do both without realizing it.
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