Tag Archives: theft

Watch how good I fake it.

I met a beautiful man tonight.

Beautiful in intelligence. Beautiful in eloquence. Beautiful in movie knowledge. Beautiful in spirit and garb. Ugly in unavailability.

He was, quite simply: all that I have learned to live without.

Like most taken men, they don’t realize the golden light they shine upon you which speaks of prose and possibility. They don’t mean to promise you happiness in a smile, or to verify your existence merely by being worthy of their own. Yet they do.

He was poignantly dressed and met each twisting turn of conversation with wit and something to say (as opposed to anything to say). It was such a tonic to meet someone who thinks, learns and then speaks, that I felt myself pulled towards him like a planet towards the sun (or like all women towards chocolate and Ryan Reynolds) (probably in that order).

The attention he gave me was so complete as to suggest we were merely two halves of a whole, that our happy ending was a fait accompli. Such are the perils of dating in the modern world. Men have become so adept at synthesising romance, in the moment, it feels perfectly plausible. It’s not so much that you’re fooling yourself (though, there’s that) or that movies have brainwashed you (though, there’s that), mainly just that they’re THAT DAMN GOOD.

But as the night wore on, alcohol replacing romance with cruel credibility, I began to think perhaps he did know of the web he weaved. That my admiration served a purpose for him and therefore needed to be serviced by him. That our innocent meeting of minds was not so innocent. He had a girlfriend. He was not offering himself in any tangible way, yet nevertheless was taking something from me – claiming the first flush of felicity, borrowing a honeymoon period to compensate for his having expired. I couldn’t help but feel his theft was, if not intentional, not entirely accidental.

His beautiful suit and shoes should have served as my warning shot – an ego dressed in siren song. Yet so starved am I of kindred company, I could hardly turn back at a red flag dressed so sumptuously. But after following his crumbs of cinema and philosophy (my drugs of choice), where did that leave me? Believing initially that we were making something, only to learn we were faking something … not back where I began but somewhere else entirely.

Like the wasteland which lies beyond the porch in Beetlejuice, there was something more terrifying than death (or singledom).

Fast food fantasy.


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