The Devil pt. 3

Notwithstanding my stated intention to tell her upon her return to the continent that I no longer harbored a place for her in my heart, I broke. As her arrive neared, I spent countless hours in the gym, completing my transformation from a 230 pound blob to a 170 pound sculpture. The vision of her stepping off the plane and being memorized by my new found physique and confidence drove me. On that fateful day, I drove to the airport with flowers in one hand, and my middle finger prominently displayed on the other—torn as to which would make an appearance. As she trudged down the ramp, I lost my nerve—I handed her the flowers, gave her a kiss, whispered that I loved her, and shed a tear.

Her reintroduction into my world was awkward. I was forced to distance myself from those that had kept me company the past 12 months out of fear that they would disclose one fact too many, and my cover as the faithful boyfriend would be blown. I truly wanted to make it work. The problem for her was that in her absence I had rebuilt myself into a confident—if not arrogant—young man finally able to cast aside the sheepishness that had caused me years of turmoil. She noticed a difference and it scared her.

For the first time since the inception of our relationship, I had the upper hand. The year of partying, pastries, and overcast skies had done a number on her once magnificent frame, and olive complexion. She was bloated and ghostly; I loved it. To make matters worse for her, I moved into a house with my high school buddies—individuals who had known me pre-devil, and were hell bent on having me join them in their quest to cast aside all things socially acceptable. Her groupies were gone, replaced by an odd cast of unique female housemates. Either due to a growing sense of attachment, or a feeling of loneliness, she fought for us.

For the most part, I appreciated her effort, and did all I could to make her feel welcome in my self-centered world. But, unlike years past, I did not spend every waking minute pining away for her—choosing instead to enjoy the company of numerous inebriated women who longed to show me the “true” college experience. Nonetheless, while I enjoyed the endless company, I basically stayed true, keeping it in my pants long enough to make it to the devil’s layer. As we came to accept our new existence, it appeared that we were going to make it. Or so we thought.

Halfway through the year, we were both accepted into a program that would send us to the Nations capital for a semester of work and classes. Accompanying us would be a small group of like minded degenerates.

Once in D.C., I fell in with my roommate and a shy, diminutive young genius—we did not know it then, but this would be the foundation of a lifelong friendship. We were almost immediately joined by a loud, pudgy, constantly drunk graduate from our college who I had befriended years before. The four of us quickly realized that we had three very important things in common: (1) our love of woman, (2) an abundance of free time, and (3) our love of the bottle. The thought of a healthy relationship was comical.

As our boozing reached epic proportions, we fell in with a crowd of lively, attractive and desperate co-eds. While the devil was a constant at all functions, I really do not remember her presence all the vividly. I know there were fights, excuses, and sneaking around. The fact of the matter is that I clicked, became comfortable in my skin, and mastered my now infamous ability to detach myself from any situation, regardless of its chaotic nature. This would serve me well as I blocked the devil out, bedded her friends and ran amuck. Why she stayed with me, believed my absurd excuses and blanket denials, I will never know; but I suspect it is because she had actually fallen in love with me.

Unfortunately, like all good things, the school year and summer came to an end, taking with it my freedom—we were home bound—the devil, myself, and my begrudging acceptance that I needed to put the craziness behind me and give “us” another try.