I met Jenny at a bar.
A dirty, sketchy, but oh-so-fun bar.
A mutual friend introduced her to me. She looked like a movie character. Her hair was perfect, the discreet make-up that she was wearing was perfect, her outfit was simple yet perfect. She was a copy of one of Godard's girls, and I would find out soon enough that it was done on purpose.
A fan of everything French, Jenny knew about every obscure movie director, book, singer, artist. She knew a lot about history and literature in general. In fact, she was one of the most intelligent people I've ever met. I wanted to eat her brain. I wished I could inject myself with knowledge in order to stand up to her intelligence.
She never went to college; instead, she learned everything by herself, reading books and surrounding herself with strange old men who knew all about the creation of the universe and everything.
Fifteen minutes after we first laid eyes on each other, we were kissing in a dark area of the bar's terrace, sheltering ourselves from the rain and from the staring eyes with her black scarf. Our own private tent, our toxic bubble that I would not quit for a few months.
That night when she entered my apartment, I didn’t know she would stay for all the length of our relationship. The morning after our first night together, we went for breakfast. Then we had dinner. Then she slept in my bed again. And again, and again, and again, for the next 3 months.
See, I had met her ''right in the middle of a big change;'' she was supposedly moving out of her apartment. She didn’t have any change of clothes. She wore the same high waist black jeans and white blouse for the next few days. Then, she disappeared.
She didn't have a cellphone, therefore I could never reach her. I would talk to her via Facebook or email, scheduling our next meeting. Between our time together, she would go to a friend's house where all her belongings had been stacked and where she could change, write, eat, drink. Then she would come back to me.
She didn’t have a job either. She said she didn’t need one, that her parents paid for her expenses so she could focus on her art. (But what was her art exactly? The art of charming? Ah!)
I believed her: Some people have rich parents, these things were not mine to worry about, I didn't really care, I didn't want to know. She was a poet, a free spirit, an artist. I was blinded by her mystery and I let her on and off in my life, come as she pleased and leave in a heartbeat. I might have been afraid of the answers I would’ve received if I had asked for more details.
Soon, I was forced to admit that something was wrong with Jenny. The first thing that caused the first fight between us was when she said she didn’t believe in monogamy. She had all these theories, proofs and principles. All this dandy crap that she would use to justify her behavior.
After a long discussion, we agreed that I would be her primary partner, and that she would talk to me about any eventual relations with other people. This arrangement was fine with me. I am a pretty laid-back person, and I usually try things before declaring that they don’t work for me. So we went on with that agreement in mind.
Jenny had a best friend who was an escort. I had never met her, but I knew Jenny would spend some nights at her house. She would describe the parties they would attend together. Private gatherings for the best clients of the agency, free booze, closed rooms, men flying from all over the world to participate.
Things got worse. Jenny seemed dangerously close to the business of sex. I started finding strange chat logs on my laptop. (‘’I miss your hands, come visit me this afternoon,’’ from an unknown man). Vague Facebook messages about hidden orgy parties.
I also started having strange encounters. The weirdest: Once, at a party, a girl came to me and complimented me on the decoration of my apartment. Intrigued, I carried on the conversation, to find out that Jenny had invited her to spend an afternoon at my house. Without ever asking permission or mentioning the visit to me afterward. I didn’t say anything.
At that point, I knew something was wrong, and I wanted to discover exactly what she was up to before confronting her. I was no longer in love with her, but it’s like I needed more proof. I couldn’t believe that she had been lying and cheating all along.
I would find out that she would hook up with girls in bars. I would find out that she was fucking her best friend on a weekly basis. I would find out many things that would break my heart.
One weekend, she disappeared completely. I had made up my mind; I’ve had enough. On Sunday night, she called me from a random number, saying that she was at a friend’s house. I was in full doubt mode so I used reverse number research to look up the address linked to that phone number. Jenny was calling from a neighborhood she had mentioned before, home of a "client of her best friend with an amazing loft."
I confronted her with her lies, her double (triple, multiple) life, only to receive more lies and impossible stories. That Sunday night, I told her to never come back.
She disapeared to a suburban area. I hear that you can make a lot of money in those regions. Or maybe she was just visiting her mom. A few weeks later, she sent a friend to my house to collect a bag of stuff she had left. I had taken a look into the bag for more clues, only to find an old Tupperware and a few dresses that I decided to keep for myself. Compensation for emotional damage, I thought.
I never got anybody telling me ‘’Hey, I called an escort agency and they sent me your girlfriend." So maybe she was only a liar and a cheater.
I never saw her again, except that one time, in a bar.
She apologized. ''I really was a jerk.''
''Yes,'' I said, quickly making my way out of her grip.