Prompt: Choose a picture and respond to it

I sat on his bed, waiting for him to come back, a knot forming in my chest. Hook ups were very hit or miss for me and tonight the stakes felt high. He was nice enough, attractive, but I could never quite tell if the dinner-side banter would translate into bedroom chemistry. By the time I knew the answer, it often felt too late to turn back. 

"I often fake my orgasms," I told my therapist two weeks ago. 

"Let's unpack that," she'd said. Armed with her pep talk, tonight felt like the tipping point. If I feigned my pleasure again it would be a reluctant admission that I prioritize the ego of strangers over my own desires and needs. "You don't owe men anything," she'd told me. 

I looked about his room as I waited for him and noticed a spray bottle by his mirror marked "Ant and Roach Killer." My skin crawled as I imagined a cockroach crawling across the very mattress where I sat.

He appeared in the doorway with two drinks in hand. 

"I didn't know if you liked olives so I only made one dirty."

"Dirty is great," I said. 

He handed me a glass and I watched as the olive banged against the large block of ice floating at its center.