What you need to know is that most of the time, I’m a pretty good guy. That’s why people like me. I mean, you’ll never hear someone calling me a great person. That, you’ll never hear, but if you ask someone what they think of me? They’ll always say something about how funny I am, or how I’m nice. That’s because most of the time, like I said, I’m a pretty good guy. And Faith is crying against my chest, and when she finally moves her face away, I’m worried more about the moisture marks she's left on my shirt than why we’re breaking up. She tells me, “You’re an asshole.” I think that she may be right. But let’s analyze the facts.

She came on to me. All my life, and it’s not that long of a life, I’ve been living in these fictitious relationships with women I can’t have. IE, Veronica Rea in the second grade. I mean, I used to fantasize about the school being captured by terrorists, and me taking a bullet for the girl. And then she would sit next to my bloody corpse, and tears would roll down from her blue eyes, wetting her perfect face, and her soft, lustrous blonde hair, and she would finally realized that I loved her, and that she loved me too. Surgeons would bring me back to life. We would marry. And then we would do grown-up stuff. Like, kissing and shit.

Jeannie Roth, Catherine Holmes, Elizabeth Burton.

And Nancy Davis about two years ago. We used to talk a lot, and hang out in school. We would kid around, saying we were boyfriend and girlfriend. And she would fuck everybody but me, too. She’d cry about it on my shoulder, and tell me how great of a friend I was. And then, I would masturbate in the bathroom thinking about her. And it wasn’t that I didn’t do well, either. I mean, women like me. It’s just that they’re not the kind of women that Veronica Rea grew up to be, or that Nancy Davis was. They’re the kind of women who you see me kissing with, and think: “Well, that figures.”

Any woman who goes after me I have a pretty low opinion about.

I guess that’s the first problem.

I mean, along comes this nice looking, funny broad called Faith Henderson who I meet at a party. I mean, at a party for God’s sake. The girl is just like a fucking walking contradiction. I mean, all of her friends are ugly, and she’s really, really nice. And… She’s funny, and we end up making out, and it’s the first time that’s happened to me with a girl that looks like Jeannie Roth, Nancy Davis or Veronica Rea. I mean, those girls… They don’t do that. I mean, at least not with people like me. So, excuse me if I’m a little weary at first.

Now we’re breaking up. And she’s still crying.

I tell her, “I’m sorry. What do you want me to say? I’m sorry.” She sniffs, and she sobs some more, and she buries her face against my chest again, and then she starts pounding me softly in the stomach, frustrated. I move my hand behind her head, and try to pet her, but she pushes me away, and screams:

“I don’t want you to say anything, you dick! I want you to be sorry about what you did, and I want you not to do it!”

Right, so I fucked someone else. I won’t say I didn’t mean for it to happen, or that I didn’t know what I was doing. I mean, I meant for it to happen, and I knew exactly what I was doing, but what I will say is that I felt bad about it. That counts for something, yeah? Truth is, I didn’t even feel that bad about betraying Faith. Yeah, I mean I did, I felt really bad, I felt like an idiot, I felt like a scumbag, and I am a scumbag, but that’s not what I felt the worst about. What I felt the worst about is that I cheated on her with this really… ordinary looking girl. She wasn’t ugly. She wasn’t. But she wasn’t pretty at all, either.

Her name was Heather Bale. Faith was grounded for the weekend, because she had tried to sneak out of the house to go see me and ended up locking herself outside. Naturally, I felt it was her fault we couldn’t see each other that night, so when I arrived to the party I was feeling pretty angry. I mean, there I was, with a drink in my hand, next to friends who were all looking for someone to go tongue-wrestle with, and I’m thinking that this will be a pretty boring way to spend my evening. I’m thinking, I was better off staying at home, and masturbating, because all the action I’ll be able to get tonight will come from my hand anyhow. Side-fact number one: I don’t drink beer. I don’t enjoy the taste, and I made a bet with a friend of mine that I would never drink it. I’m not sure when the bet ends, but I don’t wanna lose five bucks, so I stick to hard drinks. I like Vodka with almost anything. Rum with Coke. I specially enjoy those cheap, pre-made mixtures, like Piña Colada in a plastic bottle for 1.99, or fuzzy lemon water and spirits for 2.50.

So, most of the time, I’m pretty drunk.

I lack self control. I would use the word alcoholic, but I only drink on weekends, and I’m too young to be that. And I know that’s no excuse for all the stupid things I do, but it doesn’t help either. And so, not too long after I get there, the glass in my hand is empty, and needs a refill. I head on to the table, and there she is. I don’t notice her. I don’t even look at her. There’s nothing remarkable about Heather Bale, other than the fact that she says her cousin is a man named Christian. Her hair is brownish, tied back. Her eyes are greenish, but small, and teary. Her tits are puny, and her ass is flat, and she says to me, as I pour some rum into my glass: “Aren’t you Faith’s guy?”

And I go, “Yeah. Yeah, I am. And who’re you? You know Faith?”

“Oh, not much. I met her once in a party. You were there too, but I guess you don’t… Remember, eh?

“No, I… No, I think I do. You’re…”

“I’m here with my cousin Mandy, I’m Heather Bale.”

“Heather! Right.” And then there’s silence. And I take a sip of my drink. And she nods, and I walk away. A friend of mine screams, and tells me to drink up. I do. And five minutes later I’m pouring some more rum inside my glass. And as the evening progresses I’m feeling this liberating sense of… independence. Laughter, lights, jokes, flirting, dancing, arguing, fighting, laughter, lights, jokes, flirting, and then I spot Bale again. I yell to her: “Heather!”

She laughs and says, “Hey, you remembered.”

I fall in love with any woman who pays attention to me. When we’re done, she doesn’t say anything. I ask her not to tell her cousin about this. I tell her it was a mistake. I tell her I was sorry, and I kiss her, and I tell her that she’s a great girl. And she laughs, and says it’s no big deal. I leave about twenty minutes after that. And what does the stupid bitch do?

“Don’t you love me? I mean, I thought you…”

“I do love you. I love you, Faith, I mean, you know I do.”

“You liar. You’re a fucking liar. You’re full of shit,” Faith whines, as I shake my head in disagreement, even though I know she’s right. I’m trying to think of reasons for this not being my fault, and I can’t come up with one. I can’t seem to come up with the energy to try and stop it, either. Sure, I tell her I love her. Sure, I tell her I’m sorry. But maybe I want it to be over. Why do I want it to be over?

“No, Faith—”

“You’re full of shit!” It’s cute. Even when she screams at me it’s cute. She closes her eyes, and her cheeks are reddish, and some wrinkles paint themselves between her eyebrows. It’s fantastic. Why do I want it to be over?

Faith is a great girl. She’s definitely the best girl I’ve ever gone out with. It’s weird, but you always hear songs about how you don’t know what you have till it’s gone, and how you take things for granted… It’s weird to actually feel that way. It’s like they’ve warned you about it all your life and you still stumbled upon it. I like that she talks like she’s better than everybody else. I know that sounds like a bad thing, but it’s kinda like her thing, you know? And she does it in a way that is not annoying at all, that is actually pretty cool. She also does this thing when we’re alone, and we got nothing else to talk about where she fills up her cheeks with air, and moves her eyes around. It kills me. Seriously, it does. Why do I want it to be over?

Maybe because I like the idea of her more than I like her. Let me explain, I mean, those things I mentioned, I like all of those things individually. I like the fact that she does those things. I also like her face, her tits, her ass, her sense of humor, but I don’t feel the urge of being with her every single moment. I don’t feel like I have to call her every day. I don’t feel like spending my free time on her, in parties I don’t feel like dancing with her, and when we see a movie, I actually see the movie rather than the insides of her mouth. I told her that I loved her once. We were making out, and I pulled my face away from her, and I brushed my hand against her cheek, and she smiled, and I remember her teeth were really white, and I just stared at her face. She laughed, “What?”

“I don’t know,” I told her. “It’s just that… I love you, Faith.”

She said it back, and then kissed me again. I don’t know why I said it if I didn’t mean it. It just seemed like the most appropriate thing to say at the time. Like the kind of thing people would say in movies. And it worked, I think, too. I ended up sleeping with her that night for the first time. Now, I guess, I will never get to sleep with her again. Does break-up sex exist?

I’ve only ever seen four women naked, excluding my mother in a sorry incident that I don’t really want to discuss. One of them is Faith. Heather, too. The others are Helen Fisher, and Elizabeth Merrick. Helen was my first, Liz was my second, and Heather was my fourth. That alone should kinda exempt me from any kind of judgment, if you think about it. I mean, any guy who’s had sex less than ten times is gonna jump at the opportunity of doing it again. Of course they will.

My shirt is soaked.

I’m at her house. I’m in her room. I don’t know when I’m supposed to leave. I’ve already been here half-an-hour. I’m waiting for her to kick me out. Her room is pretty big, and there’s some girlie stuff, like pink sheets on her bed, and bears, one of which is holding a giant heart with the words “I Love You” written on it. I gave her that one. Faith’s not speaking. She’s staring away from me, and I reach towards the bear, and grab it. She looks at me, puzzled.

I drop the bear.

“Faith, I’m sorry. Just gimmie a chance, alright? Just… Look, I know I fucked up. You don’t have to tell me that, I know that, I know it’s my fault this is happening, and I know what I did was wrong, but… But if you just forgive me, you know? If you just forgive me a little bit, and maybe… Hell, I don’t know. I love you, Faith. Isn’t that enough, man? I love you, and I want to be with you, and I know I’m an idiot, I know I fucked up, but it doesn’t mean this needs to be over, right? I mean, does it? It doesn’t, right?”

She doesn’t say anything at first. She stands up and walks towards the door. I think about the first time we kissed. That is, the first time we met. I had been talking to her all night, and finally I ask if she wants to dance. She said, sure. And on the dance floor, she put her arms around me, and I touched her waist. And we moved, and our cheeks touched. And at first she didn’t really want to do it. I kept trying to turn my head, so our lips touched, and she kept trying to move her face away. She didn’t leave, though. And that meant something. So finally, when the song was over I pulled her closer and just stuck my tongue inside her mouth. It wasn’t romantic or anything like that. But it felt good. And my friends were proud of me. And she gave me her number, and her mail address. Now, she opens the door. And:

“Please, leave.”

“Faith, just listen to me, alright? Just listen to me.”

“Please, leave.”

Out of politeness, I do. Without a word, I walk past her, and down the stairs, through the living room, and out the door. It’s a fifteen minute car drive from her house to mine. I decide to walk it. And as I do, I start to cry. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know why. I mean, I feel relieved. I feel glad that it’s over. But… I’m still crying. The first girl I ever kissed was Amanda Hearst, and she was butt ugly. Remember Nancy? The girl I talked about earlier? Nancy Davis? She was there when I kissed her. I kinda did it in a desperate attempt to make her jealous, but of course, she ended up going down on some… idiot college boy. Amanda was kind, and told me I was cute, and funny, and laughed at all my jokes. She smiled, and told me she was really drunk when I knew for a fact that she wasn’t. And then she took my hand, and told me to come with her to the kitchen for a minute. There, we kissed. I didn’t feel proud about it. I never told anyone, even though everybody kinda figured it out. And I started avoiding her at school, and everywhere else. Nancy told me she was pretty hurt by that, and I think I told her I couldn’t care less.

In the street, people stare, curious.

I probably would, too.