I grew into a person you see as empathetic. But it’s not empathy. It’s survival. That watchfulness can be pretty damn useful in dating, though. I don’t just memorize how to make your coffee. I memorize everything. I know how you like to be woken up in the morning. I know you’re having a bad day before you do, and I’ve got a list of ways to fix it. I’ll burn you a CD of your favorite songs and songs you’ll like, and it won’t occur to you I’d rather listen to anything else. I’ll make sure we have tickets for the concert. We’ll listen to your music on the road trip. I know mine drives you crazy.

* * *

—

After Rhonda, I dated Autumn, the Korn fan. Try putting that mixtape together. I fell for her because she had kind eyes and she liked to steal. I mean that she was fun. Where I couldn’t drive to CVS without fighting with Rhonda, Autumn and I never fought, not in the beginning or even the middle. Road trips were the sort of adventure you imagine before you’ve had to drive twenty-two hours in aggressive silence back from New Orleans because she wanted to do a threesome and you accidentally enjoyed it. Autumn and I went to Provincetown once, midwinter because that was our budget. And we got thrown out of the one open head shop because she didn’t know you’re not allowed to say “bong” in a head shop. (This was in the beforetimes, for you assholes who live in legal states.) Anyway, the whole way out of the store, Autumn was knocking shit off the shelves, throwing handfuls of hemp bracelets and puka-shell necklaces into the air, just fucking making it rain with those tourist-stop gay postcards. It was sexy as hell. I mean that we actually liked hanging out together.

   I remember my brother came to visit once, on his way up to New England after college, and I was so proud for him to meet her. This is my girlfriend. Isn’t she fucking cool? Dude. This extremely cool person loves me. I mean, goddamn, she was cool. And really fucking good at shoplifting, which she did constantly, and not because she couldn’t buy something. She just refused to believe a razor blade was worth five dollars or that a restaurant would miss their ramekins.

But in no time, I slipped away again. A dish in the sink could send her into an anxiety tantrum, and then came the list of all the messes I’d made. I kept lists too. Of things to clean before she got home from work—coffee table, bathroom, bedroom. Of the morning routine—make bed, fan off, curtains open, sink dry. Of foods she didn’t eat—tomatoes, onions, mushrooms, celery, water chestnuts, apples, cucumbers, any vegetable that hadn’t been canned, whole wheat bread, any dressing but bleu cheese, any booze that wasn’t Smirnoff Ice. Any variation could send her into a panic attack that felt like rage. But always, I’d forgive her. Because I understood.

   I became the person she needed. I could love her enough for both of us, until someday, she could love me.

I made her lunch and drove her to work at four a.m. on my days off so she wouldn’t have to park. And slept on the couch those same days because I breathed too loud. I don’t like horror movies, but I’ve seen every Saw and Hostel in the theater, more than once. I don’t like roller coasters because I can get just as sick on a hammock and throw up in private, but I’ve ridden every coaster within a hundred miles of D.C. And if you asked her, she’d tell you I loved that shit. Because I made her believe it. Because I loved her. And I wanted her to love me.

When it was over, I can’t say there was much left of me to love. I became the person who answered the phone when she needed me. I didn’t matter. I needed nothing. I could take a pill or drink enough that nothing mattered. I could fuck her when she was lonely. I could hold my dog when I was alone.

I wasn’t done seeking love. I thought if I could find that, have that one answer—This is who I love, and this is who loves me—if that were no longer a question, I could deal with the rest. I wouldn’t mind so much the mess I’d made of my life. I wouldn’t mind knowing it was too late to change it. And I believed by then that it was too late. So I fucked anyone who needed to feel something.

   I was working as a cable tech at the time. I used to tease the guys who claimed they’d fucked customers, though I knew it happened on occasion. Then one day it was me, though I’d never tell the other guys.

One of those apartments for the newly divorced or extremely busy, already furnished, four plates, four bowls, four glasses. Coffee maker. The moving boxes stacked against the wall. She’d been workshopping innuendo about laying cable. She gave up and asked if I’d ever fucked some lonely housewife. I was waiting for the cable box to load, staring at the lights on the front of the box. I said I hadn’t.

She asked, “Lack of opportunity or lack of interest?”

I couldn’t figure out if she was hitting on me or teasing me. Not something you want to misjudge and have to wait around in awkward silence while a cable box decides if it’ll work. I shrugged and turned around. She took off her jacket, and I saw the gun under her arm. She said, “FBI,” then added, “really.”

I said, “In this neighborhood, most people will believe you the first time.” Then she took the harness off.

I’d watched Silence of the Lambs too many times to even think of turning her down. I was lucky our cable boxes were being upgraded and I could excuse a missed hour with, “I had to try three of those fucking things. Sorry. Yeah. There’s just no phone signal in Falls Church.”