He sometimes wishes he never met you. But he did, and now there's nothing he can do to take it back.

You were both in your mid-twenties, and your life was a goddamn rave. He associated you with things such as substances and fair-weather friends and parking violations, messy hair and bar fights. You were insane, and, strangely, it was addicting.

And so he stuck with you, because what did he have to lose? Anyhow, you were fun. Especially when you were drunk.

You'd have stupid ideas, of course, like trying to do doughnuts in your Volvo- he always rejected those- but then there were other things. Sometimes you were calmer, would pull him over and whisper in his ear that he looked like someone you used to love.

He liked the way you looked at him, too. Eyes glossed over, thinking no doubt about things that would get you both banned from airport bars or wherever the hell you decided was your next go-to spot.

Maybe it was an addiction. You. But he didn't care, especially not when the two of you sat on city rooftops and cursed the kids who used to bully you in school, then laughed your asses off about something that wasn't even funny.

Then there were nights. Ones where you were both piss-drunk, and took it too far, and woke up in weird places with no recollection of how you got there. He couldn't say that it didn't thrill him to no end, if he did he'd be lying. He truly was addicted.