I was seeing this girl for a while. When I say “seeing”, I mean occasionally we would get together, usually at her place, and screw. I’d buy a case of beer and we’d lay around in her hobbit-sized basement apartment all night watching TV shows and get high and drunk, and screw. She was a bit crazy. By “crazy”, I mean she had emotional problems, came from a broken home, hated her father, had a lot of money for some reason, did a lot of drugs, drove really fast, had sex without orgasm, listened to Amy Winehouse and wrote poetry. She wanted to have sex all the time, even when I was passed out.
After we stopped seeing each other, by that I mean I stopped answering her text messages, I found out someone I knew had started seeing her – possibly in much the same fashion. When he broke off the affair, she did not react exactly well. By that, I mean, when they ran into each other at a bar one night shortly after, she made a scene, screaming at him, smashing a cocktail glass and spitting in his face.
“That could have been me,” I thought to myself. Then I realized, it still could be me.
Now I walk around the same city, looking at women’s faces, half-expecting to see hers. Once you screw a slightly crazy girl for a while and end it, it makes you a bit paranoid. You start watching your back, wondering if today is the day that you pay for the poor judgement of your impetuous yesterdays.