Long time, no speak. Wanna do dinner at the Italian place?

The anticipated text from your ex-boyfriend, that comes at least once a month. The text that always ends up with you back at his place, believing his sweet nothings and being kicked out the next morning without another word. Until, the text a month later. And the cycle continues. The Italian place was were you met his parents, does he just not remember? Or maybe he does, sometimes you think he does things like this purposefully to remind you how you used to be. You wish you could read Art, or maybe you can, you just chose to believe what you want about him. You suggest coffee, nowhere else is safe. He, of course, ignores your request.

Drinks? The jazz bar on Mary Ann Street?

He's late, obviously. The blonde comes bouncing in twenty minutes late, you don't even bother to listen to his excuse. You're already questioning why you let yourself fall for his charms again, until you look into those blue eyes and you know exactly why you're here. His excuses fuel your illusions, ignoring the way his eyes linger at the women at the bar as they always come back to you. Art half listens, when he asks you questions, which you of course choose to ignore, because at least he's asking you something.

When it comes to Art, you've always been the same. You'd rather feel something, than nothing at all. The once a month messages means you're still in his head, he still needs you, in some way. The wine is poured, words are exchanged, as his hand reaches for yours over the table. "I want you back, baby," He pouts, tilting his head at you as his hand squeezes yours. You know he's lying, if you didn't love him, you'd be fine. He hiccups his way through his words, the wine working it's way through his system. "I'm sorry, babe, y'know that. Sorry for everything, just want you back."