There’s been a terrible accident.
You receive a phone call from one of my friends. There’s been a terrible car accident/earthquake/fire and the doctors aren’t sure if I’ll live through the night. Overcome with emotion, you leave your very important meeting and rush to my bedside. Maybe I’m in a coma, or maybe I just have a single sexy scratch on my cheek. It depends on how I’m feeling that day. But seeing me in that state just makes it clear to you that you need me in your life. You touch my hand, tears rolling down your cheeks, and we live happily ever after through a montage of first dances, wedding speeches and park lunches with our three beautiful children.
I become a celebrity.
When I’m not almost dying in freak accidents I’m becoming famous just to get your attention. In one fantasy, my striking looks and sense of humor attract the attention of a director and I get a five-episode story arc on that show you love. In another, I save a group of kindergarten children from a runaway bus. It’s all over the news. You can’t ignore me.
You show up unannounced.
After the accident and celebrity fantasies wear off, we move to a more traditional, you showing up and begging for forgiveness scenario. You can thank romantic comedies for this. First of all, you never call beforehand; you just miss me too much for formalities. It usually begins with me cooking, or working in my non-existent garden when the Legends of the Fall score fades in and there’s a knock at the door. Or maybe I’m hosting a dinner party for my single and bitter girlfriends and you show up for a Jerry Maguire moment.
I have a killer apartment.
Unfortunately showing up unannounced to my parents’ basement where I currently live doesn’t have a great ring to it. Showing up at my loft overlooking the bay, now that sets a scene. There’s usually exposed brick, great hardwood floors and floor to ceiling windows, which are perfect for dramatically staring out of. If you’re lucky, I’ll offer you a drink from my small yet well curated bar. It’s located over here, next to this mid-century credenza.
I’m ten pounds thinner.
I also have perfectly styled hair and a great outfit. Not too sexy, but not exactly an everyday outfit. It’s a look that says I’m beautiful without trying. If this were real life, I would be in my white high school graduation sweatsuit with my hair in a dirty bun. But this is a fantasy world where I always look effortlessly chic, live in a home that can be described as a “space” and you’re still in love with me.
I make you work for it.
I never take you back right away. Even in the darkest parts of my mind, there’s still a little voice that says, this probably isn’t a good idea. So I make you explain yourself. I tell you that I don’t have time for someone who’s going to hum and haw over whether he wants to be with me. Sometimes I go all Carrie Bradshaw on you and say, “I’m someone who is looking for love” and so on. Maybe I slap you (romantic comedies tell me this is okay) or throw a drink from my well curated bar in your face. But every night, over and over again, you convince me that you were wrong, and that we’re meant to be. Then one evening, as I pace back and forth on my hardwood floors, swirling my whiskey in my perfectly manicured hand, I tell you I’m not taking you back. Not tonight, not ever. It’s just not worth it anymore. I ask you kindly, to go. Then I turn and look out at my perfect view of the harbor. I can’t watch you leave.