He was special. She knew that straight away. It was probably why she kept going back to him against everyone's--including her own--better judgement. Why he was special she couldn't say except that she liked him and she seldom ever liked anyone.
And she kept letting him come back because she couldn't reconcile the fact that she didn't get what she wanted each time. And each time he would get a taste, leave her with a sample of possibility and then announce that he was no good for her and she was better off without him.
"Let me be the judge of that, why don't you?" She would shout at him each time and he would never respond but just walk away, refusing to even dignify her legitimate query with a response. She would be a wreck afterwards, failing to take an interest in any of her usual hobbies, going to work and coming home in an uneventful and robotic manner. She would bring home random men with whom she would steal moments of intimacy and then be disgusted with them—and herself—the morning after.
And then, just when she thought she had washed the scent of him out of her hair, he would reach out again. He'd vomit apologies and explanations, and he'd begin to woo her all over again with more and more ease each time. And, truth be told, she would be glad when he called again and said he wanted to see her. She would be glad that he was giving her another chance and dreamt that THIS time it would work out. She was glad to feel justified in her lasting affection for him and glad to feel that she wasn't as unlovable and useless as she had led herself to believe.
They would have anywhere from a night to a week together in which they saw each other exclusively by choice. They would make love and they would talk about art for hours. They would polish off bottle after bottle of rye whisky and just sit and stare at each other with loopy smiles on their faces. She didn't know anything that came closer true happiness than those times with him.
And she didn't know anything closer to true misery when he broke her heart and left her again. She never expected him back, but secretly hoped for it, and she thought of him constantly, mourning his departure and blaming both him and herself for the breakup. She wallowed in feelings of lowliness and self-loathing, believing herself never to have the privilege of romantic happiness again.
Until he reach out again and then all was well once more.