“So what’s going on with you and Caroline?” Said my man, as he paused to take a long pull off his pint.
“Eh, she moved to Chicago maybe a month back.” Fucking Caroline.
“Ah bummer man, you guys going to work on that long distance thing?”
“Naw, I think we’re going to go our separate ways,” I said, taking my own long pull off the black stuff while taking in the surroundings and inhabitants of this faux Irish Pub.
Fucking Caroline. I didn’t even like her when we’d first met. Introduced as friends of friends, out for some laughs and some drinks on a Friday night. I’d actually liked her roommate. She was much more my style, small and cute and sassy. No, Caroline was more of a classic beauty, tall and long, beautiful in a more elegant way. Refined, it was easy to tell that she came from a good family, a cultured family, a wealthy family. Truth be told, I hardly remember the first time we all hung out, as I was focused on stealing her roommate from her roommate’s very handsome boyfriend. Failing at that, I was focused on getting drunk enough not to care. I must have made an impression with my antics because the next week our mutual friend came to me, “Caroline likes you.” I didn’t think much of it. So? I liked her roommate. The little one, the pixie with a malicious streak. Besides, Caroline was too tall and too blonde for me. Too refined and proper. She liked skiing and wine and shitty folk pop music. I was punk rock and pints and fights. She wore stylish suits and a worked at a downtown firm. I wore a blue collar and worked overnight shifts at the factory. We were from different worlds, and I wasn’t interested in bridging the gap.
My man turned to the watch the game on the television above the bar while I slammed my pint, and violently ordered another. Fucking Caroline. As girls tend to be, she was one step ahead of me. One drunken night, I found myself abandoned in her neighborhood with a very expensive cab ride home in my future. She, of course, offered her couch. Her couch, of course, turned into her bed. I, of course, discovered that tall, long, blonde girls might not be so bad after all, but I still wasn’t too impressed with the whole thing. We went on like that for awhile, drunken sleepovers after bar nights, which eventually turned into sober dinner dates. Which eventually turned into me liking Caroline, more than just a little bit. To her, I was a project. A punk rocker and factory worker who also read Hemmingway and knew politics better than her politico friends. A loser with potential, or something like that.
Fucking Caroline. Right about the time I started liking Caroline more than just a little bit, she seemed to be losing interest in me, more than just a little bit. Which was certainly not alright with me at the time. While she at first sent me cute little texts throughout the day, they became less and less frequent, and then only when she was drinking, and then not at all. Our dates became less frequent, until they evolved back into drunken sleepovers, and I wondered what was wrong. I heard that she was running around with someone new, someone taller, someone who wore a suit and tie to work at some downtown firm. Someone who’s family had a cottage up north, and liked to go skiing in the winter. She told me there was no one else, that she was just busy with work, that she hadn’t changed, that it was all in my head. I wrote her poems, sent her flowers, gave her my 6th grade soccer shirt, because it was old and worn out and softer than imaginable, and one time she’d said she liked it because it was part of my history.
Fucking Caroline. A week later, she’d moved to Chicago with Ben, a friend of her parents’. A lawyer at a downtown firm, we’d played soccer against each other growing up. I’d thought he was a prick back then too.
“She was good people, I always liked her,” said my man, waking me from my day dream.
“Fuck Caroline, she was too tall and too blonde for me anyway.”