It only took four weeks for Dion to drive her away. For starters, he was a passionate drunk, and dramatic delusions like "I think you're my soulmate" would often erupt from his lips before he himself had... erupted. Three minutes was his usual time, but I heard about a girl who made him finish in forty-five seconds once.
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Dion was talkative, too, drunk or sober. He'd talk about astrology and indie films way too much, often early in the mornings or late at night when you were trying to sleep. Keisha was used to hearing boys yap on about football and vulgar comedy shows but Dion's topics of interest were more like a girl's. Maybe that was why girls liked him. He reminded them of themselves. They felt safe with him. It was like his mind had been split with a woman's and therefore he understood them, empathised with them, knew how to love them.
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Except he didn't.
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He was jealous, insecure, sensitive, too sensitive. He cried a lot, sometimes after sex, usually in the middle of the night, slouched over the toilet seat, arms trembling around the porcelain edges. Pills were strewn about the cupboards in his ensuite — self-prescribed medicines he claimed the government didn't want him to have, because they were tools used to awaken the third eye, or something along those lines.
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Kiesha was physical. Dion was emotional. She found herself dreading the thought of sleeping with him because she didn't want him to write her some melodramatic poem the next day.
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Yeah, that's right, Dion had a whole drug problem and Keisha was concerned about poetry. His pretty face seemed to become less appealing the more he spoke.
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She told me all of this after she dumped him. And somehow, I still stayed by his side. Stroked his hair while he cried. Told him it was all going to be okay.
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I still don't know why.
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