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I had a love affair with a man in my early 20s. He was in his late 30s. We had this game that we enjoyed to play. He would tell me tremendous lies and I would pretend to believe him. I would tell him tremendous lies and he would pretend to give a damn.

It's not a time I very proud of, as I have my suspicions that this gentleman was no gentleman. He may have been married. He may have had kids. He may have been using me all along to get through some early (or late; he may be dead by now) mid-life crisis. It's all very possible and likely. But I enjoyed it for what it was: encounters with lightning. Our affairs were split into multiple stormy encounters, conversation for the sake of hearing ourselves talk: me pretending to be much older than I was (which, admittedly may have been a turn-off for him) and him pretending that he really had more than an hour to spare when he was with me. 59 minutes later and he was almost certainly out the door. But he'd be back. He always came back.

Well, until he didn't.