I remember Jeff saying that I didn't love Monica. I loved the woman she could have been. He reminded me that it wasn't my job to save everybody. I didn't listen to him.
She had me from the first moment I saw her across the crowded cafe in the Village. She was so beautiful- with her long, dark hair and womanly curves- that at first I didn't notice the scar on her left wrist.
When things started getting serious between us, Monica told me how she used to have a drug problem and had slit her wrist in a botched suicide attempt. She told me she was over all that and I believed her. After all, I had been quite the drinker once upon a time, so who was I to question her recovery?
About a year ago she moved in with me. And life was great. We liked the same movies, listened to the same bands, and I suppose our 8:00 bedtime was fun too. Sure, she had flaws. But her imperfections only made her more human, not less amazing. I couldn't imagine life without her. Then I got home one evening after my shift at Brentano's and she wasn't here. We had plans to watch the mimes in Washington Square, so I checked the machine. No message. No note on the fridge either. I called the art gallery where she worked, but was told she had left over an hour ago.
So now I sit here smoking cheap cigars, emptying another bottle of Kahlua. Dylan's singing somewhere in the background, but it's not like I care. Monica's missing and I'm the heart-broken schmuck who misses her. But Jeff was wrong. I didn't want to save Monica. I wanted her to save me.