The first time I shut him out was two months ago, in the middle of a fuck. I can't remember why I was feeling especially down but my errant thoughts led me to think: are we fucking because he likes me or is it because I was there and I have a pussy? I stewed for sometime and he sensed that something was obviously wrong. He tried to get me to open up but I did not want to validate the awful thought so I said nothing.

Tonight, I did it again. Work sucked so bad and I'd already cried my eyes out and puked in the office bathroom. We'd planned for dinner already. I told him I wanted a raincheck because I was feeling awful but he offered his company and commiseration and I couldn't resist. Dinner was good, the conversation was nice, and we managed to squeeze in two episodes of Metalocalypse. It was in the second half of us fucking that I remembered the failure of my work day and cried silently in the dark. I pushed this away and staved it off until the post-coitus cuddle, where I essentially turned into the mean bitch. I'd turned away from him and his chatter about books and made noises as responses. He noticed my displeasure and asked me to share my thoughts. I didn't want to and I effectively ended the night by calling for a cab.

It's our nightly ritual where I'd climb on him while in the lift down to the street to the waiting cab. Tonight, he picked me up but I told him to put me down. I told him that he didn't need to walk me to my cab and he protested a little. Once we reached the ground floor, he wished me good night and went back up to his apartment.

I texted him an apology for my behavior and he rightly responds that it is alright to be upset, but to dump that on the person who deserves it. I cried again and wanted to tell him that he better run away from me now while it's still early but I didn't. Because I might regret it.