Jacqueline

In the fall of 2010 when I was still an asshole, I dated an exchange student named Jacqueline. She was French, and she'd whisper all these insanely sexy words to me in public. I would say now that it was really the height of my sexual prowess. Jacqueline was by far the sexiest girl I'd ever been with, not to mention the fact that she used to do everything for me. She was insanely smart, used to keep up with politics and all that intellectual shit. We used to joke that she was the inspiration for calling coke "white girl." This girl could keep up!

Listen, Jaq and I aren't together anymore, which is why this is important. Nobody's been more perfect for me at any time in my life. That's about the scariest thing about life, man. Things change less and less the older we get. Which doesn't bode well for what I'm about to tell you.

Jacqueline would get on my nerves every once in a while, like big time. We'd be hanging out, and she'd leave to go read! She'd say she was at some important turning point - some asshole was about to leave some poor woman or something, and she simply HAD to finish it. It was always like she had more important things to do than be around me. We were together for nearly six months when, on New Years Eve, we had a really rough night. All that pressure for romance, you know how it is. I got to the point where I wanted a girl, but only half the time. You can call me what you will, but I still think I understand women better than anyone. I realize now I wasn't the best version of myself, but I loved this woman. I never cheated, I swear to God. And that thing at the Christmas party was not my fault, you can ask my roommates. The only time New Years is romantic is if you still haven't had sex with the girl.

So I woke up, with the hangover that killed John Bonham, and she wasn't there. Her books were gone from my nightstand, but her pajamas were still in the bottom drawer of my dresser. I noticed her blue and white checked shorts folded neatly on a chair. When I picked them up, a note slipped onto the floor. I know denial is the first stage, but I jumped straight to #2, I swear it.

In these intervening 12 years, I've grown and learned a lot. Most notably how many women are named Jacqueline. My wife is an attorney, and she'll travel for these long corporate mediations. I'll look up Jaq on Facebook and think about those long tender nights in the upstairs room, where the rainfall would drown out our insomnia. Then I'll consider messaging her, realize what a monumentally pathetic move that would be, and I'll fall into an odd sort of sleep. And when I wake up, I open my wife's pajama drawer and rifle through them, looking for a note.