No one has ever accused me of wearing rose-colored glasses. If anything, I am a die-hard pragmatist. An old-school cynic who expects the worst and is suspicious of the best. It was more likely I wear moonglasses so I’m able to see into the depths of the wasted landscape of a person’s rocky surface.
That’s why when I met Martin I was wary. I looked for hints of character flaws, red flag behavior, anything that pointed to him not being what he seemed to be. Yet, the more I was with him, the closer he seemed to perfect.
He was thoughtful, playful, and intellectual. We shared a lot of the same interests. My friends and family thought he was great, and he treated his mother with love and respect. That he was ruggedly handsome didn’t hurt either.
I did what I always do. I tried to sabotage the relationship. I was demanding, needy, contrary, all those terrible stereotypes men assume women are.
Passive-aggression was the game. If he called or texted, I’d wait for days to respond. If he committed some kind of offense, I would stop talking to him, or only answer him in monosyllables. There were crying jags, and moody ramblings. I would pick fights, and bait him in attempts to get him to retaliate.
He kept coming back to me. He didn’t take my shit, but he wasn’t mean or childish. He fought fair, could admit when he was wrong, and would say “I’m sorry.” He cooked delicious dinners, he watched chick flicks without complaint, he even tolerated my cat with grace. His “too-good-too-be-true” was real.
That’s why it was a shame that I had to kill him.
Someday, and someday soon, he would disappoint me. I couldn’t have that. If this thing between us was going to end, it was going to end on my terms. I also couldn’t allow anyone else to find happiness with him when I couldn’t.
I don’t handle disappointment very well, but I do know how to make a drowning look legit.
It was truly a shame. I really liked that stretch of beach.