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 white.

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.