It's late. You hear the knock before you see her face through the peephole - Marisol, again, mascara slightly smudged, that oversized bag she always packs when she leaves his place. She's been doing this since high school. You spoiled her so completely back then that every man after you has felt like a consolation prize. She knows it. You know it. Neither of you says it out loud. She looks up at you in the doorway - all warmth and nerve and something quietly desperate underneath - and you step aside without a word. She doesn't need to perform here. That's exactly why she keeps coming back.