Why did it hurt so much?

Suddenly he pulled me into a passionate embrace. I didn't resist as his hands roamed my body-shoulders, waist, hips. Turning around I pressed him against the wall, I forced him to endure the same maddening torture he'd performed upon me. My hands rambled across his chest, down his broad muscular back, along his marvelous hips, into his pockets... I flushed. Was that a gun in his pocket, or was he just glad he hadn't killed me yet?
Distracted, I foolishly dropped my guard, which allowed him to escape my hold and strong-arm me onto the dance floor. I tried to twist free, but he was in control this time, and imprisoned me against the hard planes of his body.
"You think this story has a happy ending?" he whispered roughly as we began to move to the music.
I fought the pleasure of his breath upon my neck. "Happy endings are just stories that haven't finished yet."
In response, he spun me across the floor in a heated embrace.
And we danced. A mating dance or a duel... who knew? Whatever it was, he knew all the steps in this wordless tango of passion, anger, regret... pain. The man was torturing me here, in full view of the world. So I did what I had long ago learned to do when I was hurting. I fought back.
"Why is it, you think, that we failed?" I goaded him. "Was it because we were living separate lives? Or was it the lying that did us in?"
"I have a theory" he said. "Newly realized."
"I'm breathless to hear it."
His hands tightened on my hand, my waist. "You killed us."
A poison dart to my heart. "Provocative" I replied.
But he had only begun. "Your aloofness, you arctic efficiency, especially in bed-" He plunged me backward into a dramatic dip, and I hung there helplessly, in his arms, my eyes glittering with barely contained rage. You approached our relationship like a job" he continued, "something to be reckoned, planned, and executed- not lived."
Humiliated, furious, I hauled myself out of the submissive position and spun away, but with a yank, he reeled me back into his arms like a yo-yo on a string. And there he held me prisoner- my back to his chest, my body snuggled into his hips, his chin tucked into my shoulder.
"And you," I shot back, "avoided it."
He spun me across he floor again, this time chauffeuring me like shadows, where we paused, breathless and sweaty in each other's arms. He wanted me face-to-face, now, and raw. The saxophone notes wailed through my blood like cocaine, pounding my heart into my throat. He impaled me with his eyes, brainwashing me with his body in a hot grinding embrace I could feel his heart beating, strong and fast, as we clung to each other, suspended there in the shadows. And for a moment, I almost thought... almost felt... almost hoped... But the words- There were no words. Have you ever fought your way up from a nightmare and felt you jaw lock, found your lips sealed tight- no matter now desperately you tried to cry out? This was my nightmare, in his arms. I tried to cry out to him. But something held me back. And every second of his silence ensured another moment of my own. Until our silence tore us apart. The cold hard truth lay between us like a sword, severing all ties, and it spoke without words. And I could see he answers in his eyes. No happy endings. I could no longer bear to be in his arms, and yet I could not pull away. He seemed unable to release me.I don't know how long we stood there. But then the music ended, people were clapping and wandering back to their table. The spell was broken. Our dance was over. For always
"Baby," he rasped out, his voice cold and hard, "we can end it here or we can end it outside. But it ends here."
"Then let me go!" I cried.
"I already have."
His words tore my heart. Fool. What had I thought I'd felt in his touch, seen in his eyes, was just a mirage. Real to me; nothing but a game of strategy to him. And at that moment, I realized what was awfully wrong with this picture. He had let me go already. But I still hadn't let go of him. And the terrifying truth was: I wasn't sure if I ever could.
I glanced away, feeling as if I were going to shatter like a champagne glass smashes upon the floor. I struggled to find the strength that had sustained me all these years.
At least I tore myself away from his arms and asked a nearby waiter, "Excuse me, where's the ladies room?"
"Just over there, madam."
"Thank you."
And then I simply walked away, struggling not to stumble, not to break into a full-fledged run. I could feel his eyes on me as I left him. Felt a heat that I knew must be hatred. I'd given up caring what most people thought of me long ago. So why did it hurt so much?