Sheila – 2013 to Present – The Ghost of Rittenhouse

“What if I end up accidentally breaking her hip during sex?”

Sheila is known by many names in Rittenouse. The White Witch of Rittenhouse. The Rittenhouse Madame. But I call her the Ghost of Rittenhouse.

Let me do my best to describe her to you. She is tall and very skinny. She wears a furry hat most of the time. She has very long hair, it is sandy in color. She wears big sunglasses and bright red lipstick that is usually a little smudged. She wears long gloves and her skirts are short, showing her skinny bird like stockinged legs. If she were in her twenties this would work, but this woman is clearly well into her seventies.

I was walking down the street one day and I had seen her around the neighborhood. She was usually just floating around carrying shopping bags. It looked like she never ate or drank anything. Just shopped. She seems completely oblivious as to how she looks and the fact that people are staring at her as she walks by. I was coming from somewhere. I was also half in the bag, so I decided that I had to get to know the Ghost of Rittenhouse.

I just stopped and started talking to her. it was surreal. I don’t even remember what I said to her. I introduced myself and handed her my card and just started chatting. She reached into her purse and gave me a card. Now I knew her name. Beside her name was this: “M.Ed., CAC Certificate.” The card said she was a Clinical psychotherapist and Real Estate Investing.

How are those two things even on the same business card?

We chatted a bit and she asked me if I wanted to have a drink with her. I couldn’t turn down this eccentric fixture.

She took me over to The Prime Rib on 17th and Locust. I would never hang in a bar like this but I think she may have been a regular. I ordered a cocktail and start chatting with her. She knows the bartender. Does everybody think I’m just some boy toy she picked up? At least no one I know was in this bar.

She’s telling me how she’s divorced and has worked in Psychiatry out on the mainline and also in real estate. She seems very intelligent and articulate. I think she just may have a screw loose somewhere. No woman at the age of 73 would dress like that. I like her personality, but I’m looking at her and she’s just gross. Her top was low-cut and her breasts were just like slack, collapsed, flesh socks hanging down her chest. I’m sorry. I really am, because you know I love women, and I want to like her. She’s obviously lonely as hell. She’s holding an intelligent conversation with me, but the way she looks is just embarrassing. If she would do her hair differently and wear some more conservative clothes, she’d look so much better.

We’re talking about Philly, and movies, and all kinds of different subjects. I wonder how many times this has happened to her. Some drunk slob talks to her and then leaves. Which I proceeded to do after about an hour.

A few days later I go to my office and there is a voicemail for me on my phone. It was Sheila. She left a nice message about how she’d like to go to the movies with me. I felt kind of bad. I wasn’t going to call her back. I would go out with her but people know me in this city. I can’t be seen with her. It’s really sad. If she would just look and dress her age, she would look presentable in public. Just another rich old lady that lives on the square. I found out she lives in a really nice building right on Rittenhouse square. So she is wealthy.

I spoke to another woman I’m friends with in town. Mary. I’ve known her for a while, because she works as a hostess at a restaurant I frequent. I will write about her in the near future. I told her the story of Sheila. She suggested something I didn’t expect.

Mary is 69 years old. So she’s only about five years younger than Sheila. But totally different. Slim, sharp, attractive, has a job, and doesn’t dress like a nut. She said I should call Sheila and go out with her. Take her to one of the Ritz theaters for a matinée. Not many people in there. Won’t run into anyone I know. Dark. I don’t have to talk to her for two hours, etc.

She said to be my usual charming, romantic self to her. At the end of the date, I tell her that if she could put me on an allowance of some kind, I would in turn provide companionship and romance to her.

Crazy right? A sugarmama for me? More like a sugargrandmama!

“Crazy like a fox.” I said to Mary, “What if she wants me to have sex with her. I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Tell her that special services are provided as long there is an additional fee.” Mary replies.

I laugh. “What if I end up accidentally breaking her hip during sex?”

“That’s on you, kid.”

I don’t know what I’m going to do. But Mary is diabolical.

 

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Kylie – Broken Wing – The Rittenhouse Cocktail & Fashion Event

“I see your screen is cracked. Is that in style now?”

A few years ago, when I sold advertising for a drinking website, I was asked to be a judge for the Rittenhouse Cocktail & Fashion event. It’s actually and event that is impossible to complete. How it works is this; They pick an evening in the Spring where about a dozen of the fashion shops stay open late.  Each one brings in an alcohol brand to make cocktails and serve them to the general public. People can sign up for this event and everybody pays for tickets and gets a little wristband.

The shops are scattered all over a seven square block radius between Broad street out to 20th street, and between Chestnut and Locust street.  Most people who sign up for the event just wander around and stop in places to check out their wares. While there, they can enjoy a nice cocktail made from some big liquor brand.

It’s a fun night if that’s all you planned on doing. Take a date, look at cool fashion, and drink your face off.

Here’s the problem you have when you’re a judge for the event. You show up, and they give you a list of all of the stores with a note pad to write down all of the names of the cocktails. But you also have to write down the ingredients, and then you have to rate the drink.

This would be a fun exercise if I had four hours to do it. But the event only lasts for two hours. I’ve done this event twice, and both times I couldn’t physically get through the event.

But I tried. Lord knows, I tried. Beautifully smashed.

The people working the tables are great. They’re really excited for you to taste their products and are very enthusiastic about discussing them with you. But, you can’t spend a great deal of time with each representative, because you have to get to the next spot. I would like to get the list of places at least a day before hand, and a list of what the brands are and the names of the drinks with their ingredients. Then I could maybe get through the twelve different locations and the drinks. But there is still the timeframe. It is a back-breaking exercise in speed tasting and running around center city. Could me and my ex-girlfriend Michelle (See: Michelle – 2007 to Present – A Brand New Day) pull off an event like that? Sure we could. Would we be destroyed at the end of it?

Damn straight.

So it was my first time as a judge for the event. This was back in 2012. I’m in one of the shops, about a third of the way through the event, when I’m approached by a somewhat cute brunette. She is dressed in a cool leather jacket and tight slacks. She looks very fashionable. Perfect for an event like this. She’s maybe thirty. What struck me most about her was her hair. She wore the rare “stacked bob.” You really don’t see many women rocking this style. Best thing about it is, it’s really unique. People will remember a chick with that cut. She also was carrying a nice camera and taking a lot of photos. She said she was covering the event for Philadelphia Weekly. (A piece of shit print publication, that no one reads anymore. It’s better utilized as a birdcage liner or wrapping your fish up in.)

“You look like you know where you’re going, mind if I tag along?”

I tell her sure, because I could use the company of an attractive photographer and tasting partner. I tell her that I’m a judge for the event. We exchange formalities and get moving. I’ve got the list and she’s helping find each place.

It made it way more fun to have a girl with me on this little journey.

We’re hitting each spot and getting to know each other along the way. The clock is ticking and I’m really trying to get through the whole show. By the end, we were literally running to the last couple of places. It was a fun challenge.

We missed a few along the way but as miracles would have it I actually remember the last cocktail I tasted. So I couldn’t have been that banged up. We were in Nicole Miller in the Bellevue Stratford on Broad street. The drink was a whiskey infused cocktail where the rim of the glass was made of Smores. You could actually bite the edge of the cup and eat it. It was called”Ghost of the Campfire” due to its sweet but smoky taste. To me, it was the clear winner.

Kylie and I had a great time together that night. We ended up walking over to Ocean Prime at 15th and Sansom. We sat at the bar and sipped one final drink. We chatted and exchanged business cards. I remember her phone screen was really cracked, which was the birth of this line, “I see your screen is cracked. Is that in style now?” I see so many busted screens these days.

Why won’t these people purchase cases for their phones? It’s essential for a bit of technology that none of us can no longer live without.

I kind of liked her and thought she was attractive so I was going to try to see her again. I could use some ruse about coming to an event with me. We parted ways and I told her I’d reach out to her in the near future.

I think I did on Facebook or text, but nothing ever came of it. I did see her maybe six months later when I was at an event in Old City. She shared studio space with another photographer down there. But I was inside a building when I saw that familiar stacked bob walking down 2nd street. By the time I would have gotten through the crowd and got outside, she would have been down the end of the block by then.

Little did I know at the time how Kylie would re-enter my life in the near future. I will write about her again, but she won’t make another appearance in this story for a while.

Oh, and she has world-class legs…

 

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Annabelle – Chapter 1 – Nice to Meet You

I get the bill. “The second one was on me.”

The title for the Annabelle series was going to be: “The Final Elegant Arc” but in light of what I’ve learned in the last year, I can no longer call it that. So I’m not going to call it anything.

My life has its moments of elegance and moments of pain, but it is far from final.

I was meeting ex-girlfriend Michelle (See: Michelle – 2007 to Present – Nice to Meet You) for brunch on a Saturday. She was getting her hair done in the morning and then we would do our usual Saturday ritual. I was early as usual and her hair appointment was running long. (That kind of amazing beauty takes time. Just happy we’re still friends!)

I stepped into one of the shittiest hotel bars I’ve ever been in. Just because it was a block from the hair salon. The Warwick Hotel is a beautiful place on 17th and Locust. They have a restaurant a coffee shop and a bar connected to the hotel. Prime Rib is a nice spot on Locust and Tavern 17 is at 17th and Chancellor. I’ve been to this bar many times before when friends would visit the city and stay at the Warwick. The drinks suck, the service blows, the management turns over on a semi-annual basis and the way the place is laid out is in a way where you can’t see anything. There are all of these large pillars or supports that are everywhere through the bar area, and you can’t see what’s going on at the bar. The bartender may not see you and you’ll have to wait.  You can’t find your friend, etc. It’s just a suck bar.

But I thought the number 17 would bring me luck. 17 is my family’s lucky recurring number. It is very prevelant in my father’s life and I thought there could be something there. Recently my friend Trish (See: Trish – 2011 to Present – The She Wolf) asked what my birthday was. I told her 8/9/62. She said,  “What’s 8 plus 9?” I responded…17.

I walk in a little hung over from the night before. The website I worked for at the time had a huge party the night before and we were all a little shattered from it. I walk in Tavern 17 around 1pm on that fateful Saturday. It’s empty and dark. Which for once I was happy about. Behind the bar was a very tall, fresh faced, slender blonde working the bar.

I swagger up to the bar and ask for a Corona. I introduced myself and run my usual program on her. “What’s your name, what do you like to do when you’re not working here?” She tells me her name, and says she’s a photographer as her full-time gig. The Corona is crisp and deliciously ice-cold. It’s actually just what I needed.

Something tall and golden that is no longer Michelle.

Annabelle seems nice and I’m making her laugh with my fatal charm. She’s 5’ll”. Taller and leaner than Michelle. We exchange business cards. I tell her I’ll check out her website. (Michelle is still way prettier though! Michelle reads this blog!)

I text Michelle and let her know where I am. I’m having a beer and she can just come here when she’s finished.

I crush the first Corona just to knock the edge off the day. Annabelle pops the cap from another and places it front of me. It’s just as good as the first. There is no one else in this shitty bar at this time of day, and she’s happy to have someone with which to chat.

She says she does a lot of head shots for local actors in the city. Annabelle is very connected with the local theater community here in Philly. She also does some wedding work as well. I’m assuming that pays pretty good. I can’t put and age on her but she looks to be about 24 or 25.

I’m feeling better now. Chatting with this tall blonde is good and the cold beer has reactivated the alcohol still in my system, giving me a gentle but effervescent buzz.

The door squeaks and the sunny afternoon light pours into the bar. Michelle enters the bar. “Oh, and here comes another charming and lovely blonde.” I say on cue. I introduce the two ladies and we have a laugh. “Your hair looks great, Michelle”

I get the bill. “The second one was on me.”

“Thank you, Annabelle!” I tip up to what the bill would have been and gather my stuff. We say goodbye to Annabelle and head out of Tavern 17 into the afternoon to have some delicious brunch and drinks.

Then we’d probably head back to my apartment and watch Netflix, sip wine, and smoke cigarettes. I’d be in my chair and she’d recline on my sofa.

I later checked out Annabelle’s website and reached out to her on Facebook, but nothing ever came of it. I didn’t ask her out on a date or anything. I may have asked if she ever wanted to meet for lunch or something. My usual gentle M.O.

But like I said, crickets.

When you meet someone like that, and it’s brief, there is a good chance they will quickly fade from your memory. I met tons of people back in 2012. I had a job that was 50% socializing. I didn’t forget Annabelle, but I wouldn’t see her again until a year later in 2013.

And it would be a whole new ballgame.

 

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Tales of Rock – Rick James Holds a Woman Hostage and Burns Her with a Crack Pipe

Charlie Murphy terms James “a habitual line stepper.”

Musicians’ drug problems are often rich sources of satire for comedians, but no one has ever been sent up as thoroughly and hysterically as Rick James. A 2004 episode of Chappelle’s Show saw Eddie Murphy’s older brother Charlie describing James’ antics during their long friendship as Dave Chappelle reenacted all this dressed as James. He’s depicted cavorting with loose women, licking their faces and rejecting their breasts; fucking up a couch; and punching and slapping Murphy in the face and in turn getting beat up repeatedly. Murphy terms James “a habitual line stepper,” and all the while the real Rick James appears intermittently to offer little more explanation for his behavior than “cocaine’s a hell of a drug.”

Of course in reality, James’ drug tales were much darker. In 1992, James and his girlfriend were accused of holding a woman hostage for a week, binding her, forcing her to perform sex acts and burning her with a crack pipe. In 1993, while out on bail for all this, the two did the same thing to a female music executive and were arrested again. James was found guilty of both offenses and sentenced to two years in prison; released in 1996. He later lost $2 million in a civil suit related to the case.

The same year the Chappelle’s Show episode dedicated to him aired, James died of heart failure. An autopsy found nine different drugs in his bloodstream when he died; a mixture of prescription and illegal drugs. Cocaine was one of them.

Super Freak.

 

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Devon – The Crazy Cat Lady – Part Two

“I am looking for a tall dark western European man to have a relationship with.”

A few months later I invited several people out to open mic night at the comedy club Helium over on Sansom street.

The only people who showed up were Michelle (See: Michelle – 2007 to Present – Nice to Meet You)and Devon. I was fine with that. Me and two good-looking women at a club. We get a table and are having drinks. How it works on an open mic night at a comedy club is this: Five bucks cover to get in. The best amateur comics come out first. Also if they are there every week to do stand up they are higher in the rotation. If you are new you’ll go on last and many people leave by then because as the night goes on the comedians suck more. Dave Chappelle actually enjoys this. He likes to stay to the very end to watch as the amateurs slowly die on stage or freeze up or whatever. He sees their failure as funny. I on the other hand hate it after about an hour.

So after about an hour, Michelle was fed up and so was I. Also, Michelle doesn’t like sharing her time with me with other women. (Even though we’re broken up) She went to go smoke outside. I told her I’d join her. We agreed that the show was starting to suck, and we should get Devon and go somewhere else and get some food and drinks. We go back in and sit back at the table. I put it to Devon that we are fed up and we should all go somewhere else and hang and chat.

Now when I put out the invite on Facebook it was to many people. So it was a group event. Only two showed up. It wasn’t like I asked Devon out and then brought Michelle to tag along. But I guess that’s how Devon took it. All she had to do was get up, and leave with us and it would have been a great night. We saw some decent comedy. The tickets were only five dollars a piece and now we could move on.

But that was not to be. Devon insisted on staying. I told her it was only going downhill in regard to talent, and that she should leave with us and get some food.

Nope. She said she was staying and seemed pissed. I gave her one last chance and then we left. Devon decided she would rather be a martyr and be jealous, than go out and hang with some cool people who weren’t even boyfriend and girlfriend anymore.

So Michelle and I went over to Smith & Wolensky’s at the Rittenhouse Hotel. (Now called Scarpetta. That’s where I would later reconnected with evil Sarika) We got some wine, and smoked cigarettes on the balcony. Good times. I walked Michelle home and that was it.

A few days later I get a text from Devon. “I guess we should talk.”

(I wait a bit)

“About what?” I text back.

“What happened the other night.”

“Nothing happened. The show sucked. We wanted to leave. We wanted you to come with us, and you insisted on staying.”

“I want my keys back.”

“Fine come pick them up.”

“Mail them to me.”

The next day I taped the keys to a piece of cardboard and put them in an envelope and took it down to the mail room where I worked. I told the guy it was swag for a client and he stamped it with postage. I didn’t pay for the envelope of the postage. Devon wasn’t worth it.

Three years later I was sitting in McGlinchey’s with Carol, (Carol – 2014 to 2016 – There’s No Fun in Dysfunction) when I get a text from an unknown number. It says something to the effect that this person felt we ended things on a sour note and wanted to reconnect with me. I had no idea who it was, it had been three years! I gently responded as to get them to reveal who they were, and I find out it’s Devon.  I’m not one to hold a grudge but apparently Devon is really good at that. But I guess when you have run out of friends you crawl back to anyone that will talk to you.

I agree to meet with her. I haven’t even thought of writing Phicklephilly yet, so i did it from the heart and not for the blog. (Like in most cases when it comes to head cases!)

We are at the bar at Square 1682. She’s the same old Devon, but three years older. Now in her forties, she has at last found a decent job and a better apartment and is doing well. She wants me to take her to events around the city and things involving the arts. But she makes it clear she isn’t interested in dating me. If she had gotten any better I would have considered it, but not really. I ask her what she is looking for and she responds with the following: “I am looking for a tall dark western European man to have a relationship with.”

Think of how juvenile that is. that sounds like a teenage girl’s dream. Devon hasn’t changed or evolved at all. She’s still stuck in the same place because she never tried to grow or change as a person. You can’t just cut people off for three years and expect them to just come back into your life like nothing’s happened. A lot can happen in three years. But apparently not much has changed for Devon.

I don’t really have any use for Devon now. Especially after a three-year gap. I don’t have anything in common with her except our mutual friend Marigold. So she tried to reconnect to me and even though she has decided after three years she is no longer angry at me, I have no reason to hang out with her. She just seems like another aging crazy chick.

I saw her once more last Christmas when Marigold came to visit with all three of her wild kids. Devon was actually pretty good with the children. Too bad she never got married or any of her own.

Well, she still has her cat.

 

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Devon – The Crazy Cat Lady – Part One

“It looked like you hadn’t even been there.”

I met Devon through my long time friend Marigold over ten years ago. (See: Marigold – 1997 to Present – Good German Stock)

Marigold met Devon while riding the bus up in Fairmount. She admired her sense of style and just started talking to her. They became friends. I was introduced to her at some point and liked her. I thought she was kind of hot. Marigold and Devon had even been over to the apartment when Michelle and I lived together.

Devon had a history of making bad decisions in regard to relationships. She has had affairs with married men that went nowhere, or usually has a type in mind, which doesn’t really exist. I also understand she was brought up in a very strict religious family and that’s never good. Add to that some mental illness and that just makes for messed up people.

Years ago when I was living back in Jersey, I was trying to find a home for a cat we had. It’s a long story that can’t be told here, but maybe someday in Phicklejersey. Devon agreed to come and get the cat. She already had a Siamese of her own but this cat was so nice she thought it would work. She came and took the cat and I was happy that she was able to provide a home for it.

I remember she had the cat for a while but then her cat didn’t get along with it so she ended up giving it to another family. Her cat was a prima donna. But Devon made her that way.

As the years rolled by, Marigold wanted her friends to be happy, so she thought I should hang out with Devon more. Most of all of her friends had gotten married and moved on with their lives and Devon was still working three jobs and riding her bike around the city. I reached out to her and invited her over. We watched the comedy Bridesmaids and drank box wine. I also provided some crackers and cheese. She bought over some ice cream and we ate that too. Just talking to her I noticed she was sort of negative about her life and appearance. Concerns about aging. She was pointing out the lines on her forehead. I hadn’t noticed until she brought it up and pointed it out. (that’s always the way with me. Don’t point out your flaws ladies. You’re great just the way you are!)

She was taking a trip one weekend and asked if I’d go to her house and feed her cat. I told her I would be happy to do so. She gave me a set of her keys. The time came and I went over to her apartment. She lived on the ground floor of some shitty building that had some issues. Mice and cockroaches are two things I just don’t like. I’d rather see a mouse that a roach. We had roaches in our home growing up in Northeast Philly. The house was clean but they would appear in the basement at night. So there is a long-standing dislike of cockroaches. However, I do respect how long cockroaches have existed on this planet. way longer than humans. I just don’t want to see those successful fuckers in my house.

I get there and there is a note on the table from Devon. It was a laundry list of things I had to do while there. Empty the litter box, with very specific instructions so that her cat didn’t get an infection. Make sure the cat has fresh water and food. Fill all of the bowls of water that are sitting on the radiators. I think they keep the air fresh as the water evaporates. Take out the trash and recyclable trash. I wish I still had the note because it went on and on, front to back. It was around the holidays and I went two days over the weekend and did all of these things to the letter.

I was pretty proud of myself that I had been so meticulous about following every little step on her very expansive list. When she got home I remember talking with her about her holiday. I asked her if everything looked good at her house and was expecting the praise I so richly deserved.

“It looked like you hadn’t even been there.” was all she said.

I was thinking that would be the last time I ever do anything for this bitch in regard to her apartment or her fucking cat.

 

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Michelle – Chapter 14 – Paradise Lost

“Well it looks like you’re not going to marry me or give me kids so…”

It’s Sunday night. I’m checking in with all of my readers and that’s when I final edit all of my blogs for the week.

This is when it’s do or die on this forum.

Michelle has been my best work because I adore her, and our story has been so fun.

We’re approchaing the end but it’s not really the end. I know we have both enjoyed the ride, but the ride has to end.

But It’s never over. (Jeff Buckley)

As my beloved Jeff Buckley once said, “She’s the tear that hangs inside my soul forever.”

I have lived long enough that a Michelle in you’re your life never ends. She can go away but you never forget who she was. Neither does your sisters. They all have met her at the amazing holiday parties and adore her. My beloved brother in laws love her for how amazingly hot she is.

It doesn’t matter. Michelle belongs to herself and she is her own, and as much as a man I am, she is and always will be a woman that stands alone.

Let’s begin this chapter…

I’m sitting at a dark bar in Rittenhouse. A vodka martini, straight up with a twist rests on the marble bar in front of me. I tap the ash off my cigarette into the crystal tray. A beautiful tall blonde glides into the bar. She sits besides me and orders the same. We chat. She laughs. I take her home. We make love. It’s beyond wonderful.

I love her.

I will always love her.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling as the dream fades from my mind like a wraith.

Michelle and I had been living together for about a year and a half.

We had some good times and some not so good times. This is a dating blog, so I will protect those still in my life, so I will let the network executives at Netflix shred my life accordingly when phicklephilly becomes a series.  But I will always protect Michelle. Anyway … every relationship is like that. We had settled into what every couple eventually becomes. You go to work. She goes to work. You come home, eat, watch TV, and go to bed. She’s a light sleeper. I snore and get sent to another room. Repeat.

Domesticity.

Sometimes we’d have a few words, but it normally only happened when we’d been drinking and there would be some sort of misunderstanding. It would all be forgiven and forgotten the next day. No big deal. I can honestly say I’ve never been really angry with Michelle. I know what real rage looks like. I have an ex-wife for that.

Michelle and I were always lovey. She would come to me in the morning and say, “Did we have ‘maddy mads?’ and I would always say no because I knew it was just a drunken misunderstanding over how I some how won scattergories

One day I was sitting on the loveseat just chilling out in the living room. I think it was a Saturday.

Michelle enters the room.

“We need to talk?”

Can everyone in the entire world agree, that that statement never leads to a fun conversation?

I don’t remember what words were used to explain why she needed to talk to me, but I do remember this part:

“It doesn’t look like you’re going to marry me and give me kids, so I’m going to move out.”

That was it. She dumped me. I don’t know what questions I asked her, and it doesn’t matter now. But I do remember saying to her that I would make it easy for her to go. I wouldn’t be an asshole or be mean about anything.

It didn’t take long. She got her brother and his friends to come and move her stuff out.

It’s eerie when someone you love leaves you.

There is a carving void.

I walked back to the bedroom after they cleared out all of her stuff.

The bedroom was empty. I guess I forgot that the bed was hers. There othing left but a cracked window.

Funny thing was, she only moved two blocks away into a third story walk up. Things were quiet for a while, but I think we both just missed each others company. I don’t remember how much time passed, but we eventually met up on Chestnut street for a drink.

Then we started having brunch together every other weekend. Back then, Lorelei had not yet broken free from the clutches of her mother, and still lived with her. So the weekends when Lorelei wasn’t with me, Michelle and I hung out. We didn’t have any random hookups. We were better friends than lovers. I really believe that. Technically, we only were a couple for two years. 2008 to 2010, but we were drinking buddies and pals for the other five of those. Michelle would still take me to her corporate party every year. Hell, I took her to my family’s annual Christmas party for a couple of years after we split.

We got it right. But we got it too right. We set the bar so high when we began, and there was such mad euphoria, we just couldn’t sustain it. You can’t live like that forever. No rock band has ever been able to do it, why would we be able to? We tried to make house with each other because we loved each other but our dynamic destroyed that. We are meant to love. Clean and clear but impaired by wine and fun. Every supernova burns bright. When a star goes supernova it burns so bright across the sky. Super bright. But what happens after that? It burns out. No one can burn that bright forever. My father always said, “Stars will shine.”

But even stars die.

It isn’t something you plan to be or who you want to be, it just happens. Two people meet and something happens and it’s just electric. What fucks it up is social norms. One of you is old and one of you is young. The passion is there and there is a commonality. You have one thing in common. A common attraction, and somehow it works if the man is a gentleman. If he listens to her. If he understands her plight. If he truly loves her and let’s her know she is safe for the first time in her life. The most beautiful bird he has ever seen, has been controlled by fools and caged and pushed, instead of letting her do what she is best at; Fly. Emerge from your egg. Fly beautiful bird, fly! Most men aren’t secure enough in themselves to let all of their birds fly. I’m a dad. My lovely little dove Lorelei is going to fly high soon.

Hopefully I’ve been a decent father.

I’m not saying any of this for a pat on the back. I don’t give a shit. I just want to live a simple uncluttered life. But I know the truth about some things. I know Michelle felt safe enough to love me and safe enough to leave and pursue her life goals. Right or wrong doesn’t matter. There are things she wants and she should have them. Life is longer than you think. I want her to discover it all. I always described her as the “Emerging Michelle”

She has cracked through the shell of her understanding, and her wings are dry. She needs to find her way, and fly free.

Michelle will always be my high-flying bird.

 

She always said: “I have so much fun with you, that when the day is over, I wish we could do it all again.”

 

 

 

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