Every Man I Fall For

I had my first girlfriend in Year 10. Her name was Arabella Giancomo and she was this 5”9 half-italian goddess from the boutique Girls’ school down the road that I met at a bowling alley, three months before I asked her out. Her house had a lot of marble in it, and smelled like Glen 20. When we kissed the first time, her mouth tasted like paper and Juicy Fruit chewing gum.

We went out for almost 5 months, and I enjoyed it. Nobody could deny that the girl was attractive. She had beautiful olive-coloured skin and startling blue eyes that I could get lost in. When she smiled, one little dimple popped on the left side of her face, and it was hopelessly endearing. Best of all, she had the best pair of tits I had ever seen on a 16 year old, and I was the endless envy of most guys in our area. I think we became the poster couple for a while, and I guess it was fun while it lasted. She had this annoying habit of constantly holding my hand and leaning on my arm, which would have been sweet had I not understood that it was more out of excitement and novelty than genuine affection.

I wouldn’t be such a tool as to suggest that our break-up was the direct effect of the death of my dog, Margie, but it was definitely the beginning of the end. I think she had always, like the others around me, taken my stoicism and quiet nature as some sort of sexual mystique, so witnessing me openly crying over the animal probably served to shatter that illusion for her. It was about then that she came to realise that I was really just a frightened little boy in this recently-developed man’s body, and the whole thing lost its shine for her. She broke up with me exactly a month later, via a handwritten letter which she pressed in to my hand after a date and begged me not to read until I got home.

Dear Oliver, it said, in the annoying bubbly handwriting that seems ubiquitous in teenage girls, I feel like things have changed between us. You have been the sweetest most caring boyfriend and I couldn’t have asked for anyone better, it’s just that I don’t feel the same anymore. It’s not fair to string you along like this.

The thing went for two pages, just repeating the same sentiment over and over again, and most of it washed over me, but I remember somewhere towards the end, right next to a small butterfly motif on the side of her writing paper:

You’re an amazing person. I just don’t like you anymore.