Three voicemail messages from George were waiting for me when I got back into town. Nothing for two weeks, and then, when I'm not there at his beck and call, he's like flies on shit.

"Just checking in..."

"Are you ignoring me?"

"Are you ok?"

I finally called him a day later. Let him stew. Let them all stew, I say.

I was in Vermont, George. At a wedding.

"Was it nice?"

It was beautiful. It almost made me want to get married, although when I asked the bride and groom if it was worth it, they both immediately said it wasn't. I think it was a lot of work, putting it all together.

"You wanting to get married? Ha. It must have been really nice."

It's not that crazy, George.

"Believe me, it is. My ex-wife was a miserable person. Nothing good comes out of it."

Maybe you made her miserable.

"Why would you say that?" He sounded offended.

Because you are insane, that's why.

I emphasize the word "insane" just so he knows I'm not kidding. Because I am not kidding.

"So you are mad at me."

No, I'm not. You've done nothing wrong, for the most part. But you are messy. And you know that.

"A little bit."

I coughed.

"OK, a lot. But I am trying to be a good man, I am. And I want to prove it to you. I'm still coming to town. Let me take you out and make you feel lovely."

I can't do it. I just can't. I'm not the same as when we once knew each other. I swear to you I'm finished with that kind of behavior.

"You're always going to be that way, Jami. You know it and I know it. You're deep and dark. You like to push yourself in ways you know you shouldn't. You're a very dirty girl."

Shut up, George. I have been working on myself a lot. For a while now. I told you that. And you know it's important to me. I am trying so hard to be good, and to get my life in order. And I have been trying to meet the right people, let those people into my life. And you are not helping me. And I need help here.

I stop. I realize I'm crying all of a sudden. My voice is choked, I am choking myself. I hate George, I really do. I hate myself too.

"I'm sorry." He's soft now.

It doesn't matter.

"Let me take care of you for a night."

I don't need to be taken care of for a night. I need to be taken care of forever. Forever or not at all. Nothing in between anymore.

"If I could, I would."

No you wouldn't. Because even if you could, you'd still think of me as a deep and dark and dirty girl, and no one is ever going to love a girl like that.

I cry a little bit more and then I stop. I steel myself. I have been steeling myself for so long the action is automatic.

"You're completely loveable."

You're an asshole. Forget it, George.

He makes me feel like all of those other guys have made me feel and he hasn't even treated me like shit yet. It's amazing, the way triggers work in our minds. A decade of interactions with bad boys does not disappear in six months.

"Hey, I am not being an asshole here. I just want to take you to dinner."

No dinner. And I don't think we should talk for a while. It's not healthy.

"You're not going to talk to me anymore are you?"

I can't say, really.

"Don't shut me out. Call me when you're ready."

Fine.

"Jami."

What?

"Please don't." He sounds sad.

I'm going now.

"Fine. But please call me."

Goodbye, George.

I lay back on my couch and look at my rough industrial ceiling, count the paint flecks, trace the cracks and lines that compose the texture. I picture images in the abstraction, like looking at clouds on car trips when I was a child. That one looks like a castle. That one's a bear. There's a giant whale.

Read about George from the beginning.

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