“That would be very much impossible.”
“I’m known for my ability to conquer the impossible,” he grins.
“Well unless you know some way to travel into the afterlife, it is impossible to get to him.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d he go?”
“Suicide. Slit his wrists in my bath.”
“Fuck.”
“I know. Having your boyfriend kill himself does wonders for your self-esteem.” My black sense of humour never fails to rear its ugly head.
“Oh honey, I am sorry,” says Ethan, ignoring the humour I throw out as a defence.
“Don’t be, it’s my own fault. I have a weakness for the damaged types.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, taking a sip of his drink.
“Oh nothing, I’m just thinking I should try to quit my fascination with people who’ve had hard lives.”
“Why would you have a fascination with people like that?”
I pause a moment before answering, “I suppose it’s because I grew up poor in a town full of rich people, and I began despising those who had it easy in life, people who haven’t had to deal with hardship.” People like you, my brain throws out. But I don’t vocalise the thought. For all I know he could be a self-made man, someone who dragged himself out of the gutter and worked long and hard to become successful. Perhaps his confidence is all an act.
Ethan looks at me for a long moment, as if trying to figure me out, then says, “I’m not saying it’s a bad philosophy, but it is a flawed one. You go getting involved with somebody with issues and those issues are going to affect the relationship, it can’t be avoided really.”
“Yeah, I’m beginning to get that.”
“So maybe you should think about changing your taste in men. Perhaps start going for the well-rounded night club owning type,” he smiles.
“Oh yeah? You don’t have any deep seated childhood trauma I should know about?”
“Nope. My mental health is in ship shape condition.”
“Well that’s good to hear.” I laugh.
We smile at each other for a couple of heartbeats, and it’s as if in this moment we completely get each other.
“Do you mind me asking what that language was you spoke to me in earlier, you said something like “dragostea mea”?” I ask.
“It’s Romanian,” he answers simply.
“I thought you were American.”
“I am. My family emigrated from Romania a few hundred years ago.”
“Wow, that’s impressive, I can barely trace my family back fifty years. Ethan isn’t a Romanian name though, is it?”
“No, but my surname, Cristescu, is authentic.”
I nod and take a bite out of my burger before asking, “So what’s the translation of what you said to me?”
“It means my love, it was an expression of sympathy.”