I completely forgot about that time I dated a blonde.
Needless to say, it didn’t work out.
I must have completely repressed the memory of our short-lived relationship, because when I started seeing Patrick, I definitely thought, “Wow, this is the first blonde I’ve dated.”
He was not the first.
Almost exactly two years before Patrick was this mildy angsty, self-important Francophile who also lived in Beacon Hill. He was, um, eccentric, and that’s being generous. He barely ate anything. Everything he wore was as branded as a cow. I think we spent Valentine’s Day together but I can’t be sure. We definitely watched Amelie together. Our first date was at Cafe Vanille, where Patrick and I regularly grab breakfast when the weather is warm enough to sit outside. He was obsessed with Paris in the most bizarre way. I don’t recall if he actually knew how to speak French. I do recall that I felt as if he were arrogant … but dumb. Which is the worst kind of arrogance. The first and only time we had sex, I actually stopped the action about thirty minutes in. Neither the sex nor the dating was working for me. And since that was the last time I saw him, I assume he felt the same.
Three years later, I’m pretty sure we live within four blocks of each other.
