Tiny Vessels.

When they asked me if I loved her, I always said yes. Most people would usually brand me a liar in this respect because they're using love in the dependent, I-need-you-around-all-the-time, you make me whole context when they ask me. And I suppose I am a liar if you're using what greeting cards and romance movies define as love as your belief as to what love is. No, she didn't make me whole or complete and no, I didn't need her around twenty four seven and no, I most certainly wasn't dependent on her. In all honestly, she probably thought that I wasn't in love with her because, being the naive yet sweet girl she is, she probably thinks that love is exactly what I just denounced.

I wasn't lying when I said I loved her, but it wouldn't surprise me if she tells everyone I never did at all. This isn't true. Love, by dictionary definition, is "to feel tender affection for somebody, to feel desire for somebody, to like someone or something very much". And honestly, I felt all of these things for her. I felt affection towards her, she was very desirable, and I liked her a lot. Although love may mean a lot of different things to a lot of different people, by true definition, I loved her.

Well, for the most part.

We met through mutual friends in a badly lit bar (a cliché, and a red flag, all in one). I enjoyed white wine and she enjoyed appletinis, and she found me to be quite interesting because I was able to hold intellectual conversations (i.e., pontificate) with my peers. I found her to be beautiful. Everything about her was stunning, her eyes and nose and lips and hair, her perfect body, everything about her left me metaphorically breathless. The fact that she found interest in me was enough for me to want to marry this girl (well, not necessarily marry but you get the idea). We shot the shit throughout the rest of the night, talking about the places we've both been, work, our collective college experiences. Small talk wasn't ever my strong spot, but it obviously was hers. And I appreciated her for talking as much as she did, because then I didn't have to look awkward.

At last call, she gave me her number and told me to call. I was nervous, but I did, although in retrospect, this probably was not the best idea I've ever had. Although we had lengthy discussions about the weather in Seattle, I really didn't know too much about her and I didn't know if I could go out on a date with her without the aid of wine and other people around me to fill conversational voids. But fuck it; she was extremely beautiful, one of the most gorgeous girls I had ever seen, let alone spoken to for hours on end. I threw all caution to the wind and called her anyway, setting up a late date at a local Chinese place for the next night.

To my surprise, that went well.

We continued to go on dates. I didn't really know if we were dating until we ran into some friends of hers at a movie and she introduced me as her boyfriend. We also began to physically fool around, starting off like most people do with hand holding and a peck on the lips to say goodbye every night. I liked that routine, and I thought she did too. That was, until, she invited me into her apartment one night and things heated up quicker than I had imagined (or really wanted to, at that point). We ended up having sex and she lit up a cigarette after, the smoke wafting over the both of us in this way that I could only describe as significant to how things had just changed, with one action, one action that she had whisked upon us like it was natural. Like it was nothing. I don't know which disturbed me more; that it had happened so fast or that she had done it like a professional, like it was something she had done not once or twice but multiple times before.

I shook the thought from my head as the smooth skin of her back pressed up against my bare chest, and I wrapped my arms around her as she slept. I don't know whether it was the lack of knowledge I possessed about her, or the fact that we had rushed into things, or that I wasn't necessarily sure of where this was going, but something wasn't settling right in my stomach. Maybe it was just that her bed wasn't as comfortable as I had found mine to be. I used to constantly attribute the mattress to my sleepless nights at her place. I knew deep down that I was probably wrong.

I remember when I went to Silver Lake for two weeks, trading the cold metal feeling of New York City in the late fall to the bright sun that penetrated through my skin and warmed my insides, and trading the cold metal feeling of the restrictions of a relationship that I was indecisive about from the beginning for feigned freedom. I told her my first big lie and said I was going to visit family; she saw me off in her unheated apartment with a sloppy kiss and sex that wasn't initiated by me.

I spent the next two weeks watching girls strut by with their perfect bodies and their shiny heads of hair that looked like they smelled like citrus shampoo, their tanned skin looking warm and soft to the touch. And I cursed myself internally as the guilt built up in my stomach. I had lied to get away from the girl who I think was in love with me, so that I could bake in the California sun and observe beautiful women that would never have given me the time of day. I believe it was this point that I had an epiphany of sorts.

The only reason I was continuing on with a relationship that I wasn't even sure of was because there was a girl, who was out of my league, paying attention to me, finding me intriguing, and fuck, being sexually attracted to me. And although I adored the attention, did I adore the person who was giving it to me? I lied to her to get away from her. I was ignoring her calls, I was pretending she didn't exist as I scoped out other girls, fantasizing about them, wanting them to pay attention to me. There was a particular girl, a skinny, petite brunette with caramel brown streaks in her hair. They looked natural, but that's the magic of money and good hairstylists, and California. Everything made you feel like you belonged but in all honesty, everything was fake, and you didn't belong. Anyway, this girl, she was beautiful in every aspect of the word. She had light blue eyes that sparkled brightly, she had long tan legs exposed by faded denim shorts, and she had a body sculpted by the gods (or, more so, hardworking personal trainers being paid handsomely). She didn't even look in my direction, though my eyes were fixated on her. And she walked past me, without giving me the time of day. I thought nothing of it and continued on with my day.

I realized that she didn't mean anything to me. And I realized that my girlfriend, my beautiful girlfriend who I spent a good amount of time with, didn't mean anything to me either. She was just another girl, another beautiful girl who, if she wasn't introduced to me through mutual friends, if I saw her another place, at another time, would not have paid any attention to me, and I wouldn't be a better or worse person because of it. I would be fine, I wouldn't be angry. My eyes would have focused on her for a few moments, her eyes would be fixated elsewhere, and she would have walked on past me. I would have never known her name or favorite food or about her hatred of certain vegetables. And honestly, I wouldn't have cared to know. She was just another girl who was out of my league who liked appletinis. I left on the plane the next day, with intentions to break it off as soon as I got home.

But I didn't.

I prolonged the relationship for what felt like centuries, but in reality, it was just a few more months. I was a coward, and that's probably how she'll remember me, although that doesn't phase me. And I wanted to believe that I did love her for her, regardless of how young and naive and vapid she may have been. I wanted to believe that it would get better. I wanted to believe that every "I love you" uttered while we acted out fantasies on an old mattress in a studio apartment in New York City was real, and true, and right. And I did like her a lot; if we hadn't of dated, we would have been great friends because she did make me laugh and she was a good listener. The cynic in me says she was a good listener because she had nothing better to counter with. We never argued, and I suppose that was good for me; less stress that I would have to deal with.

One night, one particularly fervor filled night, I left tiny bite marks on her neck. They were markings that were of accidental origin; things just got a little too rough and neither of us had realized it. She didn't wince or yell at me; she just accepted it as a way of showing my love. And I had never intended to cause her physical pain. It was a mistake, but she didn't think it was.

As she examined them in the mirror later on that evening, she told me that she kind of liked the way they looked. Why?, I asked her. They look like they sting a little bit, I told her. And she reaffirmed that, she said they stung when she touched them. I apologized for the fifth time that day, and she chuckled at me. She said I didn't need to apologize; she counted the marks that were slowly forming into bruises. One, two, three, four, five. Five small marks trailing down the front of her neck. I sort of cringed, and she chuckled at me again. It's okay, she said. It's okay, because you gave them to me. I looked at her with this blank expression, but she didn't notice it. It kind of shows that I'm your girlfriend, you know?, she continued. There was a silence between them as she continued to examine the marks I had left and I tried to absorb what she was saying.

I almost don't want them to fade, she said. As she spoke, though, I felt myself fading. I felt my affection towards her, which was very much misplaced, fading. I felt wrong and odd and I knew it. I went to go lie down on a bed that wasn't mine for another sleepless night filled with upsetting thoughts and my arms wrapped around the delicate stranger I had convinced myself was right for me.

The next night, we went to a formal dinner party together. She covered up the bruises with makeup, just like she covered her face to hide who she truly was. I resented her for dragging me along with her to a party where I knew no one, just to show me off and brand me with the title of "boyfriend". I was dressed to the nines and silent as she proved that she was too good for me in a gown that hugged each muscle and bone on her tiny body. We sat at a table and I ordered white wine as my drink of choice; I knew tonight, I would need it. She pretended to be interesting with facts that she had not known prior to my telling her, impressing her friends with her newfound wealth of knowledge. I sat there, sipping on my wine glass, and faking a smile when she would involve me in conversation. I spent most of my night, however, drinking and looking around at all the other beautiful women with their handsome dates. I was not cut out for this; I didn't like this lifestyle. More importantly, in this moment, I didn't like her. At all.

I was brought back down to earth with a hand on my thigh, fingertips digging into the skin covered by my pants. I twitched slightly and looked down to see her light blue eyes staring into mine. She smiled a warm smile that gave me chills and asked me, is there something wrong? Her eyes became glazed over with concern and I shook my head back and forth to mean no. My thought process was a little bit different, however. As I shook my head to dismiss her worry, I was succumbing to fears of my own. I sneered internally and thought, yeah, you're damn right there's something wrong, but how horrible would it be for me to bring it up in front of all of your friends? It's not like we can talk about it now.

She, however, thought the head-shaking was sufficient and continued "entertaining" her insipid acquaintances. I downed another glass of wine.

She drove me home because by the end of the night, I was in no condition to be driving anywhere. I was honestly in no condition to be walking, she had to prop me up and help me walk to the car. She was disgusted with me and reamed me out in the car, telling me that I embarrassed her, that I was a drunk babbling idiot, that I made her look bad in front of her friends. She told me how much she disliked me in that moment, how much better she could do, how horrible of a boyfriend I was because I didn't care about this even though she had expressed a lot of interest in it, her voice venomous and resentful. And although I didn't care about her friends and her friends' opinions, hearing her throw around insulting words like daggers at a target hurt. She sounded like she had been wanting to say all of this for a very long time and was just looking for the right opportunity to do so. It may have been my slight inebriation and my tendency to become quite emotional due to the aforementioned, or it may have just hurt, but I didn't handle it well. I felt the warm tears trickle down my face, and I tried to inconspicuously wipe them away without her noticing that she had hurt me. But she noticed, and her the sound of her voice changed in an instant, and her mouth oozed a sympathetic performance of an apology that's execution was worthy of an Oscar. I'd like to thank the academy for supporting my being a fake bitch.

I was no longer having any part of this, I decided. She stopped in front of my house, and she turned her body so that she could face me. Her porcelain skin was covered in the same makeup she used to cover up the markings my teeth had made. And I realized, in a state of drunken awareness, that she was no longer this unattainable thing. This was not high school, she was not the cheerleader and I was not the A.V. kid. This was real life, and we had graduated. She was just another girl who could manipulate and lie and get things to be a certain way through flirtation and sexual advances. She was so beautiful on the outside, but hollow and empty with voids that were filled with life's most hideous invisibilities (i.e., insecurity, naivety, the ability to manipulate, etcetera), therefore making her a normal human being, not this untouchable angel. She may not have ever stated it, but she expected things to work in her favor because she was physically striking. Inside, she was empty, and ugly. It evened things out, and it made me feel slightly better about myself, better than it did being with her simply to admire her.
She kissed me sloppily as a way to solidify her apology as being "true", but I barely reacted. She teased me and told me I tasted like wine, but she was growing to like the taste because she loved me. I smiled half-heartedly at her attempt to make every word she spoke seem genuine; she smiled back with a white-tooth grin that could blind someone. She asked me if I needed help up to my apartment, and I shook my head back and forth. She smiled faintly, which slightly resembled a smirk of feigned sympathy. I thought to myself, in a haze, the only one who's going to be needing sympathy after tonight is you. I stumbled out of the car and up the stairs to my apartment, pretending I didn't hear her say the three words that burned like poison every time I spoke them.

It was the next day that I stopped calling.

I stopped calling her twice a day, I stopped making an effort to see her, I stopped answering any call or e-mail or text message from her. Weeks went by and soon, the phone stopped ringing. The messages asking me if I was okay and apologizing for her behavior from the last night that I saw her stopped flooding my e-mail inbox as well as my text message inbox. I stopped going to the places we used to frequent. Our mutual friends asked me why I hadn't called or talked to her, demanding an answer that I refused to give. I always answered with a shrug and sipped my drink, the words lingering in the air. Soon enough, they too became frustrated and the topic of her stopped coming up at all.

I saw her the other night at a bar with a tall, tan, muscular looking guy with a thick head of black hair. I saw them together, his arms draped around her as they conversed with people I had never seen before. And I couldn't help but smile as I sipped my white wine, because I never had any ill-will towards her afterward. I never wanted to hurt her, or have her hurt. I was not on her level and she was not on mine, and neither level was higher or lower than the other - they were just two separate levels for two separate people with very different expectations and needs. We weren't meant to be; our lack of things in common led to resentment and contempt that shouldn't have been there. And although she was so strikingly stunning, turning heads every time she walked by a group of people, there wasn't any substance. And although I was intelligent and could carry on conversations and make her laugh, I wasn't the Calvin Klein model who paid her as much as attention as she believed she deserved. We both represented something unattainable, something so far out of each other's comfort zones and reaches that we fell in love with what demographic we represented, not who the person was as an individual. And after it ended, I wasn't a worse person who had psychological damages, and although I had learned a lesson, I wasn't a better person either.

As a whole, she was beautiful, but she didn't mean a thing to me.