I trapped Francois. Or at least I tried to. My “best friend” had ditched me for her arsehole boyfriend at Oxford. I had to find a place to sleep after the club. He was handsome enough, just my type. A French man with curly blonde hair and glasses. I don’t remember much about him. The sex even less. I tried to cram into his single bed with him in his darkness that night. We never spoke to each other again.

I tried to trap Will, I guess. I told him about my IUD and how the doctor said there was a chance I could be pregnant. I watched the last of his attention. I wanted him to reach out and change his mind. Call me his girlfriend. Move to Mexico. Love me. Feed me. Treat me like a princess. Unfortunately, it was true at that point that he didn’t care. Too emotionally unavailable. Back for his job working for the man. The Doctor Who replaced my IUD told me: “I bet this one won’t last the full eight years. You’ll be back.” She was probably right; except I wouldn’t be back with Will. It was a cry for help and attention and nothing else.

Blake was a thin, weed-smoking boy from Northern California. He once made me pay for the gas in his car that could barely make it between the hills of Stinson Beach and Sonoma. I watched him light the small glass bowl with hash. I watched the thick white fumes enter his frail, white body. Like a ghost.

When we went to Golden Gate Park, I watched mothers take one look at him, and glance at their children worriedly, shewing them away. He had that effect on people. His pants, black from Dickies, but stained with paint, had holes in them. His cheeks were hollow. His beard, his hair, were straggly.

When he drove me to Faustin’s house in Mill Valley, an old lady who sat in her house all day drinking herself to death, I did a double take as Blake led me into the woods. In the reflection of him, moving through the wooded hillside up towards the house, I saw the headlines flashing across my mind’s eye with my picture on it: Girl, murdered by deadbeat, pothead boyfriend in Mill Valley. I wondered how I had ever trusted this maniac and let him into my life. I think I even smoked with him.

Those days, I was definitely doing something for the thrill of it. I worshiped him in the sense that Blake had shown me the stars. He did deals with the devil, he said. He showed me a world far outside the confines of my uptight schools, the rules, the lady like things to do. His were the first eyes I remember, looking too deeply and fully seeing his soul, and have him see mine. His music was terrible, like a cacophonous smacking of the guitar, an otherwise beautiful instrument. His singing was even worse. But I liked his musings with the universe. I liked his hatred of capitalism, mostly because he was so disenfranchised from it. I liked the sincerity with which he spoke of my beauty, and intelligence. I’m a sucker for a good compliment and flattery, I guess.

I often wonder where he is now. If he ever moved out of the broken-down trailer, filled with “bud”, in his mom’s backyard. If he ever found a decent paying job after they legalized weed in California and destroyed his plans for fighting the industry blockheads. Fire with fire.