I want to own what can't be owned.
― John J Geddes
I knew Sylvia would eventually want some kind of return on the favour she did for me―I just wasn't expecting her to collect on the debt so soon.
A beautiful rich girl who drives a half-million dollar Ferrari can probably have anything she wants and maybe that's the basis of our relationship, because near as I can come to figuring it out, she wants what she can't have and right now that would be me.
But hell, don't get me wrong, I'm no prize and I think it's just a case of a spoiled rich girl slumming, but occasionally she'll stop and look at me and say, 'you're not like other guys I date. You actually think about things'.
Maybe that's enough to account for her interest in me. But any way you look at it, it's dumb―she should lose me and move on with her life. She's certainly done enough to wreck mine already.
Some women are pure poison and you know it the minute you date them, but Sylvie and I didn't begin like that―she was in my 19th Century Lit Class at university.
Imagine twenty of us and a Prof sitting around a long table and she occasionally smiling at me. I'll tell you, it made me feel uncomfortable, because there's friendly smiles and then, come hither smiles, and I've never been able to tell the difference.
It took me months to work up the courage to ask Carrie out and when I finally did, I stayed with her for five years, before Sylvia, aka home-wrecker , destroyed our plans for marriage. I'm not bitter―it was my fault―I got drunk and the rest is history.
And that's why I try not to drink when I'm with Sylvia. I have a weakness and she exploits it.
I'm thinking all these deep thoughts while I'm driving her back to her condo.
And then suddenly it dawns on me why she doesn't get upset when I don't talk to her. She's used to men who are silent and dumb and besides, she probably thinks I'm mulling over something profound.
She likes it―I think it turns her on. I wonder she doesn't insist I wear Clark Kent glasses so I can toss them aside when the lights are low and turn into Superman.
God, this is pathetically lame...and so, to prevent a repeat of the past, I decide I better start talking quick before she gets any designs on me.
"You know this isn't going to work between you and me―not trying to hurt your feelings―just saying."
Her eyes flash.
"Do you really think I care? I'm not like Carrie wanting a white picket fence and a baby stroller on the verandah. I know what you are and I've been careful not to fall for you."
I throw up my hands in despair, and then realize, the Ferrari is not in self-drive mode, so I put my hands back to 10 and 3 on the wheel.
"Well, if you know this is the way we are, what do you expect from this?"
She tosses her head haughtily and says, "I gave it some thought―I could be your mistress."
"Oh no, no, no no! You ruined my engagement plans with Carrie―I'm not going to let you destroy my marriage."
"Do you have any one in mind?" she asks.
"No, I'm just looking down the road―which I think you should do and don't let just anyone drive your Ferrari."
She laughs and loops her arm around mine and lays her head on my shoulder. "See? That's what I mean. Guys I date can never be that witty. C'mon Matt, we're good together―you got to admit."
"I admit we're attracted to each other. That does not mean that we're good together."
"Well, let's agree to disagree and just keep seeing each other. Maintain the status quo until you find Mrs. Right, What's the harm in that?"
I look into her dark eyes. "The harm is I'd never find Mrs. Right if I keep going wrong."
"But it'd be fun," she smiles, "and right now, what's the harm?"
"Arghh! I can't talk with you. It's just not in the cards."
"Have it your way then," she says in a pouty voice, "I hate it when we argue."
And that's the problem with Sylvia. In the end, nothing bothers her.