“Back off, I'll take you on; Headstrong to take on anyone”

When our lips touch for the first time, colorful light beams bounce around the room, hip-hop beats boom from the speakers and electrify the ambience on the dance floor. We sit on bar stools off to the side, our lips absorbing the energy. When we part, my memory evaporates as the melody of whatever tune fades into the background. In that moment, a first for me, I lose knowledge of my name and personal history. For seconds, I’m taken by amnesia. I am completely immersed in his spell.

My awareness of self soon returns, but the magic stays. I hang on to his every word, listening with great intent about how the world has persecuted him. I don’t care to hear the whole story or pay attention to his mismatched explanations. I defend his convoluted rants as he tries to outsmart everyone. I advocate for him, even as he deliberately puts me down and clumps me into a group of women who had previously wronged him.

Excitement overwhelms me at the idea of a special someone. Following a bad marriage, a lousy relationship, and too many heinous first dates, I like the idea of him. Maybe, I even consider him a project that I can fix. He tells me he wants to write a book with me. After all, he says he’s already written a science fiction series. I can’t help but be absorbed by him.

Soon, I return to my adopted home state. With miles and days between us, the spell develops cracks and fresh air seeps in. I start to see what friends and family had been telling me for weeks. Though I still doubt them, I hear the intention behind his words.

It takes longer than they had hoped, but I end our relationship. He insists we remain friends. As his words become clearer, I realize that’s impossible. I remember his stories, the people he claims have wronged him, and grasp the truth: it’s not them, it’s him. He has an excuse for everything, never admitting responsibility, and he’s determined to prove people wrong, all the while still grouping villains into stereotypical categories. Women are the primary offenders.

We lose touch. Nine years pass.

Three days ago, I wake to find a private Facebook message from him.

Conversation begins innocently as I read his text stating his accomplishments. The Army vet without a college education claims to have earned his Bachelor of Arts degree, attended law school, and is finishing a second bachelor’s degree in biomedical engineering. He plans to attend medical school and do his residency in Germany as a military officer. He said his house had burned down and when he rebuilt it, he added a dream kitchen for his girlfriend. He sprinkles psychobabble into his responses, adding his insight as he asks questions, and providing his opinions on his political beliefs or listing his achievements and material rewards with each comment.

My patience grows thin as he asks me about my love life and says he imagines I’ve chosen a man like him. I tell him I’d never pick a man “like him.” The psychobabble and bravado intensifies as he insults my ego and clumps me into a group of women who’d rather pick a fight than solve a disagreement.

It doesn’t end there. He has turned into a virtual armchair psychologist dissecting what I’m not typing, offering obscured analogies with poor grammar, assuming my ego is so fragile I can’t tell him the truth of my relationship status, and again trying to prove his superior intelligence. I finally answer. He doesn’t respond but instead sends me a picture of two dogs with the caption, "My puppies."

Exhausted, I tell him I’m glad he’s happy and God bless his girlfriend for putting up with him. I ask him not to contact me again and block him.

After the conversation ends, I remember that science fiction series he claimed to have written. I recall the day he let me read it. He handed me a messy stack of lined papers with writing in pencil. I took it and began to read, but couldn’t get far. Between the bad grammar, misspellings, and illegible handwriting, I had to stop at the second paragraph. It didn’t make sense. I didn’t understand the plot, characters, or basic sentence structure.

When I had returned it to him, he admitted it was unpublished and said, “I know it’s not as good as something you would write, but together ...”

No. Never.