Charity Case

You told me over drinks that you follow me religiously online. You tell me I'm your favorite. You like my wit, my cleverness, my face. You think I'm confident. You want me to write a book; you'd take care of me to do it so I wouldn't have to work. I can have whoever I want to dinner at your bars. We can go to exotic locations I've only seen on maps. You tell me all the inside information on the family of a boy who I've been so pained over rejecting me (ever drama!); and how we wouldn't have made a good match anyway, because, you claim I'm smarter. You asked me to a party and offered to buy out all my friends. You refused to accept that I didn't want to go.

"I can't accept these gifts, but you're very generous." My mother nailed that line in my head decades ago; he spends, you always owe.

Bring anyone you want, you said. Make a day for it. Anything you want; buy a new wardrobe, hire a car. Get a hotel suite with the girls. Snapping your finger.

Just like that.

At a price.

"I want to show you off." You smile.

I have to admit, if I'm honest with myself and maybe with you (what have I got to lose?) that your infatuation flatters me. Being taken care of, never having to worry again is something that I think appeals to a lot of people. I could have anything. That doesn't seem terrible, at first glance. Even the office girls said so.

I had fun with you; forever the ugly child in me is yearning for everyone's notice, just part of who I am. You feed that psychological need. We walked into that bar to get this drink and everyone stared. People approached us and you bought their drinks to toast me.

A drunk girl complimented me on how nicely my "husband" looks at me. You smiled and told her we'd been married for five years. I didn't say anything. When you corrected her, telling her we weren't even dating, she refused to believe it.

But you aren't what I want. And I've just gotten my independence; maybe if I heard this weeks ago I would have seen it differently. I admit it scared me.

"He looks at you with like, this tenderness. You're so comfortable with him." I didn't have the nerve to tell this woman it was because I simply don't care to impress you.

You held my left hand and rubbed the ring finger, pouting at me. I asked what is it you wanted, since you had spent the night asking me to no avail. (How could I begin to explain?)

"I want a son," you tell me. "With green eyes."You pat my nose. "I never thought I'd consider getting married again, but I could."

That struck me as absolutely ridiculous. I laughed at how silly you were being, your face changed completely and you told me I was mean with more force than I prefer. You told me I was such an ice queen, claiming that's why I have the "number" of a practical nun. The people at the bar enjoying us moved away. Your face softened and you apologized, admitting you were just hurt. I apologized, not realizing how much this would affect you and slightly afraid.

"I like you, you're real." A huge compliment, but so unfortunate in that it proved you understand you aren't.

I realize I hurt your feelings, but I can't take you seriously. Men like you are so sad; my father's age, practically, and now with women even younger than me. I think it is a pity your wife didn't stay; I think its poetic you never had a son. Forever surrounded in this world of women; your mother, sister, daughters, ex wife, girlfriends, everyone but always alone.

You are the saddest man I ever met.