The Rogue
by Robin Allen
He looked handsome and successful sitting behind his executive desk, dressed in tailored slacks and dry-cleaned sweaters, making complicated decisions about the multi-million dollar company he ran. I was sure he'd be boring and a lousy lover, until he showed me the full-color tattoo he had inked on his calf to record a disturbing dream he'd had about corporate oppression. He told me he played guitar and used to sing in a rock band. He became interesting.
And so we began dating, this rogue and I. The rogue took me to his favorite bars and coffeehouses, and to readings by his favorite authors. The rogue talked about his favorite wines, his favorite books, his favorite movies. We took road trips. The rogue's favorite music played in the background as he talked about his car, his friends, his ex-girlfriend, his grandmother, his brother, his parents, his short-lived modeling career, his favorite color, his cat, and why he churlishly refused to open my car door. We stayed in plush hotels, and at night, after the rogue had performed, I'd fall asleep listening to his frets about the house he bought, the artwork on his walls, what color to paint his bedroom.
I'd say, "I wish I knew you when my dad lived on a houseboat." And the rogue would say, "My dad lived on a boat for a while." "That tree is such a lovely shade of green," I'd say. "Did I tell you I've decided to paint my house green?" the rogue would say.
I said, "You talk about yourself a lot." The rogue said, "If I didn't, we'd sit in silence. I ask you questions about yourself and all I get are two-word answers." I said, "That's because you always interrupt—" "No I don't," the rogue said.
I spent a Thanksgiving afternoon listening to the rogue describe his trip to the grocery story. A woman had flirted with him in the wine aisle and then again in the checkout line. "Lots of people think I'm gay," the rogue said.
After dinner, the rogue and I sat on the velvet couch that had finally arrived after a troublesome two-month wait that involved inquiring emails and angry phone calls. A few kisses had passed between us, then the rogue extracted himself from my embrace and said, "This isn't working for me."
"You're right," I said, giving him nothing to interrupt.