He was much taller then I was (I’m 5’8’’), very thin with a strange haircut. Maybe it was strange because his hair was so curly that he knew no other way of making it look “cool” other than with this haircut. His eyes were a warm brown and shinned through his Hunter S. Thompson-like glasses (without the green tint). His long arms always knew how to make me feel at home. He had long legs too, strangely long but somehow, his awkward body shape worked for him.
He listened to terrible 80s music and made fun of whatever I liked (mind you, not everyone likes Black Metal) which I let slide by. We’d sit on his brown leather sofa and sip our sparkling water vodkas and talked about pointless things that got us nowhere. You know, those useless conversations you have with the guy you like because, well, you want him to think you’re interesting...or something. He thought I was, at least for a little while.
He was 38 and I, 26. We worked for the same shitty people yet somehow found laughter in our miserable jobs. We’d hang out with his odd and depressive friends (as most were mentally unstable, alcoholics or just fucked up) and I remember thinking to myself that I hated every moment of being with these people but, when I saw his face light up when he was with them, I’d convince myself to stay 10 more minutes.
We’d go eat Chinese food at this crowded restaurant and we’d watch television huddled on his couch. He’d talk about his past only when he was drunk and I would sit and listen as tears flowed down his face. He didn’t have it easy, but who did?
He would tell me how he wanted to make art and he thought that I could inspire him. I was completing my Master’s in Art History and loved art very much. I had these ideas and thoughts and convictions about art that I was dying to share with him. Have heated debate on what we thought “art” was and what “good” art consisted of but all we did was…talk about pointless things. You know, the conversations you have with someone when you don’t care about what they have to say. So, you sit there and nod your head and agree.
It was the beginning of summer, cuddling season was over and he told me I was too young for him. After months of courtship the truth came out, I had been used. I wasn’t heartbroken. I wasn’t even sad. I was just dumbfounded. The kind of dumbfounded that just makes you say “What? What the fuck? Really?….WHAT THE FUCK!!" I could not believe that I had let this happen to me. That I had allowed a man to enter my life (rarely did I let people in) and allowed him to take what he needed and walk out as if the door was already opened and waiting for him to exit.
I stopped speaking to him. I stopped wanting to “reconnect” which we all know means “wanna fuck one more time?”. I let go. I no longer cared for him. His desire to be an artist. The music he made or the parties we'd attend. A few weeks later, however, I realized something. I realized that I had truly appreciated this man in my life and even though our discussions weren't profound or as philosophical as I had hoped, he taught me to be more vigilant with the people who enter my life. That some people out there are vampires and will just suck your energy out and leave with a smile on their face.
I was grateful for the lessons learned even if it meant wasting months with someone who was entirely wrong for my person.