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Summary
Hancock had never been the type to fall in love. Hell, he wasn't even sure he knew what love was. He was good at some things; he was charismatic and charming, could swear like a sailor, had a better alcohol tolerance than anyone, and could fuck like his life depended on it. He'd had sex with so many women (and men) that he'd eventually lost count. But the count didn't matter anyway. Out here, in this irradiated post-nuclear hellscape, it didn't matter how many people you'd fucked, or how many people you'd killed, or how many drugs you'd taken. Those things were superficial. In a world that was kill-or-be-killled day in and day out, love didn't exist. At least, not really. You could pay for booze, drugs, and sex, and love the way those things made you feel. But that wasn't really love.
He didn't love Valerie, and Valerie didn't love him. They had sex- wonderful, passionate, fulfilling sex- and then Valerie returned to her travels. There was no deeper meaning or yearning. Every time Valerie would leave, Hanock would tell himself the same thing. "It's just sex". It was always just sex. It would only ever be just sex.