After the truth came out again, I went to see my girlfriend. It was a good trip. She was hurt at first, obviously, considering the number of times this had happened, but I really did feel bad and I think she heard it in my voice. I swore up and down that I loved her, that it would never happen again—this was in her apartment, right after I arrived—she was hard as a steel girder until I went up behind her and cupped her breasts, at which point she melted against me. And then we fucked.
Afterwards things were back to normal, her bustling happily in the kitchen, me lying in bed naked with my dick floppy in the damp tangled sheets, wondering what the fuck I was doing, and why I said I loved her when the truth was I only loved her about two thirds of the time, and never after we fucked.