The Haunting of Casanova

“I like him,” she says.

You shouldn’t, I think.

He’s no good, I know it, but she’s blinded by his soft eyes and cheekbones and she thinks he likes her for her, that he might be the one, which is a lie because I know him.

He’ll use her, abuse her feelings, then leave her, aggrieve her, make her wonder what she did wrong.

But for now she’s in a phase, a clouded daze, a haze of alcohol, love, and clichés.

She’s oblivious of the trap she’s walking into, I try to protect her, to warn her, but she tells me my words are influenced by envy, because I’m not his type, or something like that, was what she said, or more specifically spat, before she walked away to find him on a blind whim.

And I knew what would happen, but I hoped that it wouldn’t because she’s fragile and weak and his reputation is bleak, large as his physique, and she’s broken, in pieces because now she realizes I was right and he was wrong.

But now she knows and with that she grows, but he won’t be as lucky.

He continues, girl after girl, forgetting each name but feeling no shame until the numbers decline, like a slowly dripping bag of cheap wine. Drip after drip, sip after sip, until there is nothing left but a reputation that confines him, defines him as someone incapable of loving.

When he meets the girl who he’s seen in his dreams, she worries their relationship would rip at the seams because she knows who he’s been, and she’s scared.

She could walk away, but chances are she’ll stay, because his sweet words and soft eyes will weigh down her fears, at least for a few years.

He’ll be happy with his ring, with his kid, with his life, until habits return, burn his thoughts, his actions persuaded by a past self he cannot shake; awake, he lies once again confined, he finds another and soon his marriage unwinds.

He’s lost in a world he once felt he controlled, no longer bold because he couldn’t fit the mold of a husband.

He begrudgingly pays alimony to a wife whose eyes have grown dim and frame has grown slim with misery and a child whose greatest fear is becoming like him.

He’s ruined, feels defeated, but his actions are still repeated. Because he learned from the start how to break a girls heart without feeling scratched, emotionally detached.

My friend, she was lucky. But I got it best.

I was never his type. Aren’t I blessed?