It happened to one of us, ladies. Let’s let her tell it: “A handsome man with tousled hair and an aversion to commitment showed up at my door, suitcase in hand, seeking shelter from the storm. (Okay, he’d called beforehand, but still.) We had a two-day romance — he played music, I wore a dress, we talked for hours. Then he disappeared from my life on a six-a.m. flight, and that was that. It was the emotional and quirky hit-it-and-quit-it.”
“My pop-culture education to date had not prepared me for this scenario. Yes, I felt a sense of loss at his leaving, but I also felt a sense of spiritual wholeness. Why wasn’t I moping around waiting for him to come back to me, like in a romantic-comedy post-breakup pre-finale montage? Why did I feel, of all things, better connected to my art?”
We came to a conclusion so bizarre that it had to be true: he’d Zooey Deschaneled her, hard. He was a manic pixie dream guy. Keep reading »
