Late 20s. Short and skinny, short dark brown hair
and dark eyes. Yuppie stockbroker, usually wearing Dockers and a polo
shirt. Chewed his lip when angry. Bangs tended to fall over his eyes.
I pack my things and move into his bare-walled apartment, thrilled at the
prospect of "living together" and toting a day-dreamed fantasy of life as a
couple. We will share our lives and our home and in a few years we'll
discuss marriage and commitment and perhaps he'll surprise me with a ring.
I learn to cook more than macaroni and cheese, and curl up in his arms on
the second-hand couch watching Errol Flynn battle pirates in black and
One night I walk in the door, tired and happy after a day of waiting
tables, and he doesn't love me anymore and perhaps I should leave.