Romance Is My Day Job by Patience Bloom Read Free Book Online Page A

down, tried to stop the bleeding, and got her help. I wasn’t sure what had happened until he explained it to me, that some people have real problems and want to leave this world. This poor woman. There was so much to live for.
    This is my chance to save a life. I can make him better. It’s my mission. All my energy goes into curing him.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    â€œI can’t get drunk enough,” Craig tells me soon into my plan to save him. We’re in the middle of our usual night, only this time he’s on the verge of tears, empty cans from a case littering his floor. How could he be miserable with a nice girl willing to do anything for him? This doesn’t fit into my romantic plan at all.
    Still, I follow him around for a few more days. I see girls, older girls, more experienced girls, eye him knowingly. The gorgeous Hispanic girl. The blonde who could pass for Marilyn. The lovely, dirty-blond-haired brainiac who prepares her food so carefully that I wonder if she has an addiction of her own. The short brunette with the peaches-and-cream skin.
    Turns out, he’s had them all.
    Sad, dirty mattress sex and booze. Puking off porches. No window in his apartment. Endless talk about governments. Overthrows. Coups d’état. Russia. Our romance reads like a tragic film about a rock star who dies at the microphone, choking on his vomit. It’s still romantic. As a heroine, I must learn how to tame a bad boy.
    My one escape from this dreary routine is the basement of the Oberlin library. I gather my Ovid, my textbook for economics (a course I’m flunking) and notes, my cigarettes, and an assortment of pens—and my diary. My other studious smoker friends work down there, and we sit in a large room, smoke, and stare at one another during breaks. I am productive during these moments and sometimes confer with my study buddies—mostly older men in Craig’s class—out in the hall. They warn me that I’m demeaning myself, wasting time with a guy on a downward spiral. I take their comments to heart until Craig enters the room and I turn bad again for him.
    Craig and I cut classes together, lie out on the grass of the quad, smoke endless packs of Marlboros, and talk about nothing. We notice the weather, the changing skies, and, at one point, he sees a burst of sun coming through a patch of storm clouds.
    â€œYou see that?” he says to me.
    â€œYeah.” I note the gorgeous juxtaposition of storm and sun.
    â€œThat’s pretty awesome,” he says.
    â€œI’m calling it Craig from now on.”
    He loves this. This is so The Thorn Birds . I’ve forgotten which characters we are at this point. But it doesn’t matter—I’ve learned that love equals emotional torture. We may not wind up together since our destinies don’t match: He wants to leave this world, I want to . . . well, I’m not sure yet. For now, though, I’m willingly stuck (obsessed) with him: how striking he is physically, that rocker edge to how he carries himself, his intellect, and that fine line between tenderness and volatility. We have long days that turn into even longer nights. I get tired of our routine, though I can’t shake it. All I want is to be in his presence, keep idling with him in the grass, be wrapped in his vile comforter. But I know it will end. So much of his darkness rubs off on me. I slink from place to place, chain-smoking Marlboros, feeling low. It has to end, but I can’t act on this.
    Craig is especially sad one night, keeps looking at me as if I’m the most wonderful person on Earth. What should I expect? He doesn’t seem to notice me much, unless I provoke him. But suddenly, he pulls me in close, looks deeply into my eyes.
    â€œI love you, Schuntzie. But you’re like . . . my sister.”
    Is there any greater aphrodisiac than this? Soon after this, he dumps me for Peaches and Cream.
    I’m