I have no idea what time it is, if it’s early morning, the middle of the night, or somewhere in between. I’m dreaming about this girl I used to date – Cathy – and some of the random things I remember about her. Long, permed red hair with tight curls that bounced about when she moved; black, piercing eyes, the kind that could cut through you and uncover your deepest, darkest secrets; her smell, that strawberry-raspberry smelling lotion that Bath and Body Works makes their living selling. She always smelled strongly of the stuff, but it was one of things I liked most about her. Cathy wore sundresses quite often, accentuating her toned arms and shapely legs. Those sundresses and the way she stood out in a crowd were the things that attracted me to her most. On even the most overcast days she was never without sunglasses, usually affixed above her forehead, resting on the cascading curls which were pushed back behind her ears. Cathy was very much a social butterfly, very much the sorority girl, yet at the same time she was eager to grow up and carve out a place for herself in the world. An individual who wanted to stand up and be noticed.

The smell of that strawberry-raspberry scent is so apparent it’s as if I can smell it, even in my dream. I almost feel like I am with her, back in Isla Vista, on a picnic in the park, wasting away the day as we talk about the future. Our future, or what she thought would be.

“Now that we’ve graduated the world is our oyster,” she said. She often used the oyster phrase.

“It is?”

“Of course. Don’t you see it? You have your degree, I have mine. We can go off and make our way, together. Us versus the world.”

“Together?” I ask. “You don’t see what we have as temporary?”

“Temporary, why would I? I think we’re quite the pair, you and I.”

“But we’re so different,” I begin, “so opposite in our views and outlook on things.”

"Do you think so? Like what?"

“Well, you’re very traditional and conservative in your views. You want to get married, settle down, raise a family, yeah?”

“Of course, who wouldn’t?” She pauses. “You mean you don’t want to settle down with me?”

“It’s not a matter of being with you or with somebody else. I'm trying to say I don’t want to settle down yet. I want to make my way in the world, cement my working status, get some money, be somewhat set in those regards. I want to have options, a plan B, whatever you want to call it.”

“Sounds like somebody who’s just looking for their next piece of tail,” Cathy says. She gets up from the blanket and walks towards a nearby tree. I look around, noticing there’s no sky, no children running through the park, no green pastures. Just us, a picnic setup, and the tree. Everything is a bright, sanitized white, a world in a vacuum. I am definitely dreaming.

“No, this isn’t sexual,” I reply. “Let’s say you get pregnant next month. We’re just out of school, with no money, no career track, no direction in the world. Knowing that, would you abort the fetus? If it posed a setback to how we envisioned lives from the beginning and you realized it right away, would you abort it?”

“Of course not!” she exclaims, turning to face me. “It's a baby. How could you suggest such a thing?”

“But it's an option, and that's what I’m talking about. You would be willing to cast aside your life selflessly for something that wasn't even part of the plan, something that wasn't supposed to happen on the timeline until much later. I differ; I would not. We're too opposite in opinions like that, and plenty of others as well. We’re not a match. Opposites don’t attract. It may serve its purpose in getting two people into the bedroom during a moment of lust, but opposites don’t get married and live happily ever after. You know the type of people who stay happily married? Two of a kinds, that's who. And we are not two of a kind.”

Cathy breaks into tears and begins talking about feelings and resolve, character and principles, but less and less of it is making sense, as her words begin to sound distant and then totally incomprehensible, turning into a mish mash of gibberish. That’s when I begin to hear humming, then singing. It’s becoming more and more clear, as if close by. Then it draws closer. It's familiar, a sound uttered by somebody I know or have known. Even closer, as if now in the same room.

The same room. I sit straight up in the bed, all thoughts immediately dumped from my head as I look around and focus on the surroundings. It's my bedroom. I have no shirt on. I look down and notice my pants are still on, but they have been unbuttoned and unzipped. Then I hear the singing again. It’s faint, from down the hall, maybe in the kitchen. My head should be ringing from last night’s alcohol binge, but I feel surprisingly okay. I swing my legs out from under me and plant them on the floor. Looking towards Sophia’s crate, I see the door is swung open and the dog is not in there. I twist at my midsection and notice the section of the bed beside me. There’s a depression there, but too big to be made by Sophia. Somebody’s been sleeping there. I rub my eyes, bringing my hands to my forehead and then –

“Look who’s awake, I thought you might be down for the count today.” It’s Monica, dressed in my sweats and a UCSB sweatshirt I probably bought from the bookstore as a wide-eyed innocent freshman.

“Uh, hi. You been here all night?” I slowly say.

“Of course. You think I’m gonna drive all the way back to mid-city and then come back this morning to make breakfast?”

“You…made…breakfast?” I stand up and start to remove my pants. I bend down to grab the legs and pull them off, and when I do my head begins ringing something awful. I quickly straighten and sit back down on the bed.

“Ugggggh,” I groan.

“Somebody had too much fun last night,” Monica giggles. Even in my baggy sweats her petite figure and ass is showing curves in all the right places. I’d like to jump her right now, if it weren’t for the bells ringing in my head.

“Yeah? How much fun did we have?”

“Not us, though we could have if you didn’t drink so much at your little party. By the way, who’s Melinda?”

Crap. At some point I must have mentioned her. “Melinda is a co-worker who went with me to the party last night. Just a friend.”

“Your friend must have really gotten under your skin because you were mumbling stuff about her last night while I was trying to undress you.”

“So that's what was going on with my pants here?” I ask, smirking. “Just trying to undress me?”
“There would have been more but you passed out after talking about Melinda. I come over for a little fun and you spend the time mentioning the other woman before passing out. You sure know how to make a girl feel wanted.”

I could have told her then and there that I’ve felt like the other man now for a month, having secretly known about her marriage all this time, but my head wasn’t up to the argument that would have ensued. I attempted to get up again, and to my surprise had a better time of it.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I began, “those weren’t my intentions when I told you to come over.” I hold a hand to my heart like I’m about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. “I apologize.”

Monica walks seductively around the bed to where I am and gives me a soft kiss. “You’re forgiven. Besides, you are so cute when you're drunk. How’s a girl supposed to stay angry at someone so cute?” We’ll see about that, I muse.

“So you made breakfast, eh? Smells good,” I say, trying to change the subject to something neutral.

“Pancakes. And your dog is already eating her breakfast in the kitchen.”

“You fed Sophia? How’d you get her to trust you? Usually she wants to tear people apart.”

“A woman knows the way to anybody’s heart is through food, silly. She was a doll. C’mon now. Let’s get you something to eat, and afterward we’ll get lathered up in the shower. Just because last night didn't go as planned doesn't mean we can't have any fun this morning. Sound good?”

I have to end it with this woman. God, help me find a way.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Later in the day and Monica and I are walking around the Beverly Center. I'm feeling much better, due in no small part to the care Monica's given me this morning. That shower wasn't bad either. Things like that can cure all ills. It's like putting leeches on to suck out the...oh, nevermind.

We're window shopping, moving around the section of the mall The Gap and Macys share. The idea is that I'm going to dump her this afternoon. Here. I've taken my cue from Jerry Maguire, picking a large, public spot with a lot of people so that she doesn't get too emotional and blow things out of proportion. Monica's Latin, so I know the proprensity for loud, emotional outbursts. Besides, she's a woman so it's coming regardless. The best I can do is make it a little more palatable for me, and I think I've done that by bringing her here.

"You want to go grab a bite from PF Changs? I think my appetite is finally coming around," I say.

Monica's faced away from me, eyeing the contents of the jewelry store we are passing by. She's showing special interest in the rings. "Do you ever imagine where your'e going to be in two years, three years from now? Where you'll live? Where you work? Who you're with?"

My step falters, hearing this, and I stop for a moment as she continues her stroll by the jewelry store window. Sensing I'm not behind her, she pauses and turns around. "What's wrong?"

I move towards her. "I was just wondering some of the same things myself, so I was surprised when you asked those questions just now, that's all."

"So you've thought about it?" She asks. "What did you come up with?"

I decide to go into my needle-and-pick mode to draw a confession from her about her marriag . "Well, who knows where I'll be. I might still be living here, or I could be elsewhere. The company I work for has offices all over the place, so maybe I get transferred. Maybe I ask to be moved as part of some promotion or something. How about you, where will you be?"

Monica walks back to meet me in front of the window, pausing to take another look at one of the displays. "I don't know, I'll probably be right here."

"Why? I mean, it's just you, right?" I say, averting my eyes from her gaze.

"Yes, but I don't know. I don't make big long-range plans for myself. The biggest thing I've ever done was move thirty miles away from my family."

"That's the biggest? A few years from now you don't see yourself with a different job, or married, or even with a kid?" I pry.

"Why, is that what you see?"

"For myself? No. I still see myself being single when I've reached your age. But for somebody like you, I would have thought you'd already be married by a year or two ago."

Monica pauses and turns from me, then goes over to an out-of-the-way bench and sits down for a moment. I follow and join her on the bench.

"Are you feeling okay?" I ask.

"Yes, I'm fine. Listen, there's something I've wanted to tell you, almost from the moment we've started dating. I've gone through a long period where I wasn't dating at all - " probably because you were somebody's wife during that time, I think to myself " - so to be experiencing all these feelings is so new. We go out night after night, then you going off with friends on other night, then some nights we don't see each other at all, maybe a quick word or dirty thought on the phone. The rapid go-go-go of how things are in our lives seems so much different than the last time I was dating."

Okay, here it comes. Now she's gonna tell me she's still married.

Monica pauses and looks down. I take her hands. They're trembling. I flip her wrists over so the palms are facing up, and I lock my hands in hers. "Hey," I say, "what is it? What do you want to tell me?"

She lets out a big exhale. She's still looking down. I'm waiting. Enough with the drama! Are we doing Marlowe or having a conversation here?

"What I'm trying to say, is that I don't want to share you any longer. Not with friends, workers, a night of beers with the guys, a game of pool with some other women. I'm done with the casual dating that's carried us through the past month. I want something more serious." She finishes and looks up at me with a smile, looking so innocent, so vulnerable.

Fuck me. This is not what was supposed to happen, not by a longshot. She wasn't supposed to take this to the next level! There isn't supposed to be a next level! My heart starts beating rapidly, and as I face her, forcing a forged smile to my face to meet hers, I'm sure all the blood is draining from my face. I've just been met with the nastiest relationship curve ball that's been hurled at me in years. She's just called my month-long bluff, and I've got to tell her what I know. Asshole or not, I have to bring it into the open.

"That is so sweet," I begin, our faces close and still sharing matching smiles, "and unexpected. I don't know what to say. I'm speechless."

"That's good though, right?" she asks. "You want to be breathless, you want your socks knocked off. It's so, so...romantic."

Ugh. "Monica, this isn't a fairy tale, this is real life. This is you and me. I've been waiting a long time to tell you something too, something that, as things now are, I should have brought up weeks ago."

Monica perks up at hearing this. Maybe she's expecting an enduring declaration of love, or for me to march her into the nearby jeweler and pick out a ring, going down on bended knee to ask for her hand in a lifelong gesture of love. You might find that story on Disney DVD but not from me.

"It's not quite the revelation you've just shared," I begin, "well, maybe it is. I've tried to find the right occasion and the right way in which to bring this up. I've thought maybe I should just say it - sure, the circumstances are weird, even creepy - but I was afraid that once I got it off my chest you'd hate me, and never want to talk to me again. I was afraid of what you'd think of me, but after what you just said, if I don't come out and say it, things will be much worse."

"What are you talking about?" Monica says. Her eyebrows are arched, a questioning look on her face. Moments ago she stopped just short of telling me she loves me, and I'm about to nail her with a pie between the eyes like I'm one of the Marx Brothers. I thought I'd be let off with an "asshole" and a day or two of the silent treatment once I told her about seeing the lawyer's letter, but now that punishment seems like a slap on the hand compared with what's surely coming.

I take her hands in mine and try to look as serious and steadfast as possible. "On our first or second date, when we stayed in and had Chinese food and wine at your place, you passed out and I put you to bed. I was pretty trashed myself. Do you remember that night?"

Monica nods, still looking at me with question and wonder. I continue: "Well, I was in need of sobering up, so I took some aspirin and downed a few glasses of water as I spent the next thirty or so minutes trying to sober up. To ward off the drowsiness I decided to hop on your computer and logon on to my email to keep the mind active..."

"Oh, so you snooped around my computer?" she asks.

"No, I didn't check out anything on your computer. I got sidetracked by something else."

"What?" Her tone has changed from bewildered to insistent.

"Monica, I saw your lawyer's letter. I know you're married, or were married. And it's left a bad taste in my mouth. I wish I had never seen that letter. You could have told me at some point, but all this time knowing what I knew, and you not letting on or even hinting about your secret just kept my head spinning. Did you think I didn't deserve to know?"

She pulls her hands from mine and stands up quickly. "You read my mail? You went through my private mail?"

"Just that piece. I'm sorry, it's like I said - I wish I'd never seen it."

"Oh, just that piece, like that makes it all okay."

I sigh. "It makes it so far from okay. I just can't believe you never said anything to me."

"Saying you have had a failed marriage is not something you proudly trumpet from the rooftops, Reed. I wasn't ready. I was embarrassed. I thought you would not want to be with somebody like that."

"I don't," I sheepishly reply. "I can't."

"Well I guess not saying anything had the same effect anyway!" she huffs. She balls both hands into fists and turns in a tight circle two or three times. She's obviously angry and wants to blow up, but can't because of the surroundings. At least I got that right.

"Look at it from my point of view. If I were married and didn't tell you, wouldn't you feel tricked, even used?"

"That's how you feel - used? You didn't seem to mind being used when we were having sex!!" She says with a raised voice. Two old folks walking by stop and turn towards us upon hearing her, then move on. "And now that it's out in the open," Monica continues, "officially, I am legally separated. The divorce will go through soon enough, as soon as my lowlife ex-husband-to-be gets his ass in gear."

"How long were you married?"

Monica sits back down, hands still balled into fists. "Just short of two years. It was awful. He wasn't the same person I'd fallen in love with." She's speaking in a low voice. She sounds full of regret, defeated.

"And you thought I'd turn into somebody else too once you told me about your past? Is that what you thought?"

"Yeah, maybe. I don't know," Monica replies.

"But you know me...I think you know me. If you didn't want to tell me right away, why didn't you tell me last weekend, or prior to that?"

Monica stares around the mall, for the first time taking in its sheer size and the volume of traffic in the concourse. Everybody seems paired up, as if it's couples day at the mall, a subtle reminder of how desperate some people can be about being with somebody during the holidays. She's sad, but not in a bawl-your-eyes-out kind of way; it's more a resigned sadness, a sudden acceptance of defeat, of knowing the inevitable has begun and there's no stopping it.

"Reed, I was having so much fun. We instantly clicked. We were having such a good time, I know you felt it too. It made me forget about my past. It was an escape. I like being with you, you're so different from anybody else I've been attracted to. You make me feel like I'm the only one who exists when we are together. I knew once I told you about my ongoing divorce all that would change."

I wanted to tell her I felt the same way about her. There was something about her from the start, a certain quality guys are always looking for but can't verbalize. Woman complain that guys can't articulate what we want in a woman and a relationship, and maybe they're right. But guys see women as we see art - we don't necessarily know what makes a woman a piece of art, but we know what we like when we see it. There are no discrepencies. That's how I felt about Monica. Usually it will take me a while to warm up to a woman, and chances are I will have called it off with her before that point of ever really knowing her comes around. Monica was different; there was an instant connection beyond the physical, just as she said. But I couldn't say that now. That would taking a step back. That would be clouding the issue at hand. I finally had the opportunity to shine the spotlight on her divorce and drag it into the open. This was no time to let it slide or make it more clouded with talk of fairy tales, instant chemistry, and the emotional transcending the physical. Now was the time for confrontation.

"Look Monica, I really like you too. I thought we had a good thing going, but knowing you were married, especially when you were keeping it a secret has really been bothering me. It shouldn't. Things like this usually bounce off me. I've dated a married woman before. Twice actually, but both times I knew who she was and what I was getting into right from the start. Maybe that's why I can't shake this feeling I'm having. It could be that you kept it a secret all this time, but I think it bothers me most because I was starting to feel for you the same way you were starting to feel for me."

I sucked air like I was in a vacuum, like somebody just forcibly drew a secret truth from my innermost depths. Why was it so hard to say? I'm not usually at a loss for words, but I was out of breath and out of things to say. I turned away from Monica, too ashamed to show the chink in my armor. Yeah, guys are expected to be chivalrous, but we can never, ever, under any circumstances show our weak spots.

"It doesn't have to bother you," Monica said, grabbing my chin with her hand and turning me to face her. "Just think of the good things, they can overcome any doubts you are having about my separation and divorce, I know it."

"That's the fairy tale in you talking," I say. "The happily ever after dream every woman has as a small girl. It doesn't work that way. I can't go on knowing I'm the other guy, the rebound. And besides, until you're divorced, he's out there. He could show up on your doorstep tomorrow, begging you to take him back. I can't be your escape."

"He lives in another state, if that makes you feel better," says Monica, now looking less and less hurt, but still a touch vulnerable. "He's not coming back. Anything he says or does wouldn't be enough for me to get back with him. This divorce is going forward. I just don't know when it will be final."

"And that's what troubles me most. I can't be going out with a woman that's looking to get out of one relationship but has already started another. I'll never truly know, or accept, whether or not you were attracted to me for me, or if I was just better than the alternative. That's why this is done Monica, you and me. Until it's over with the guy and you've had your time to decide who it is you want and why."

"But I want you. Hell of a time to be having morals, don't you think?" exclaims Monica, surprised I'm even suggesting this tact.

"Call it what you will," I say, "but it's how I feel and until those things are resolved I can't do this."

"So it's over? Done? Quit?"

"I can't handle it any other way. If things go as planned in the next few months and the divorce goes through for you, look me up. We can see where we're at, maybe go have a drink somewhere, catch up a little and go from there. But I can't do it now and feel right about it." I pause and turn away from her, looking at the people walking through the mall. I wonder if they're going home to tell their boyfriend or girlfriend that it's over, that they're not happy with the cards they've been dealt, that things have taken a detour for the worse. I wonder which of these people will find themselves alone for the holidays. "I'll take you home so you can get your car, " I say, turning back to Monica.

I hold out my hand for her, but she's not taking it. I see that her eyes are going a little glossy, and she's fighting back tears. Then she stands. "I don't understand what just happened here. A guy, if he's an asshole, will sleep with you and never call you again. Maybe he'll string you along for a few dates to get some more action, and then disappear into the night. But I give myself to you on a platter after we've slept together and I've invested time and emotion in this, and only then do you disappear into the night. In my book that's worse. I would rather you have been that other kind of asshole." She starts walking towards the exit.

I knew it would end that way. No matter how I brought it up, no matter where I brought it up, no matter how it would impact Monica, I knew I'd still be the asshole when we were through.

We drove back to my place, mostly in silence, and when we arrived Monica went inside and quietly collected a few belongings she had brought along. The dog barked on our way in, then whined softly once she recognized us, and I didn't know if that whine was one of sorrow, seeing two people together for the last time who on the outside looked so right for each other. Monica finished gathering her things, said a soft, teary goodbye, and left in silence. No parting words, no "call me," no last embrace. I heard the engine of her Honda Prelude fire up and she was gone. Sophia let out a quick yelp, a final cry of desperation to call her back, but it was no use. Monica needed to close the door on that part of her life before opening another, and she had to figure out who or what she wanted. I think she knew this as well, despite her reluctance to admit it. It was really going to take some doing to get over that woman, and I knew immediately why. We weren't opposites, we were more in the two of a kind mold. But we both need to keep our options open, and our plan Bs were not two of a kind.