Sometimes she thinks her life could be a remake of Gone with the Wind. It’s her own personal screening, and no one sees it but her.

“He looks as if... as if he knows what I look like without my shimmy.”

He looks straight through her, always has. It’s never pretty with him, it’s hot, I want to rip your clothes off, I have dreams about you. His imagination is her undoing. When he whispers his lines about passion and dreams, she can easily see it with him. And that’s the thing, it’s easy when she’s with him. It’s only hard when he’s not there when he promises he will be.

“I wore this old thing just cause I thought you liked it!”

She’d struggled into the short skirt, endured the achingly high heels, and forced herself into the too tight shirt all for him. She’d dabbed on perfume, painstakingly fixed her hair and makeup, and wore a satisfyingly jingly bracelet just so he’d mess with it. And he’d walked right past her without a backwards glance. She wonders why she even bothers.

“He doesn’t know that I love him. I’ll tell him, and then he’ll have to love me back!”

She sent the text late at night, when everyone else was sleeping and no one was there to witness her private shame. It simply stated that she would be whatever he wanted. Trouble is, he didn’t want her. She didn’t scream, throw a tantrum, or even toss a vase at the wall. She calmly picked up the pieces of her shattered heart and tossed them in a box underneath her bed, along with everything else he’d ever touched.

“No, I don't think I will kiss you, although you need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.”

He’d told her he’d teach her all she needed to know. And by truths he did. It started out slow, with innocent texts and progressed into something she’d never done before. And then he taught her how to break and how to crumble. He showed her that men cannot be trusted. He taught her well.

“Here, take my handkerchief. Never, at any crisis of your life, have I known you to have a handkerchief.”

She always cried at the most inopportune times. Never around a box of Kleenex, and never in the safety of her room. It always occurs as she’s about to leave, or when the tears can’t be used in the situation.

“I can't let him go. I can't. There must be some way to bring him back. Oh, I can't think about this now! I'll go crazy if I do! I'll think about it tomorrow. But I must think about it. I must think about it. What is there to do? What is there that matters? Tara! Home. I'll go home. And I'll think of some way to get him back. After all... tomorrow is another day!”

It’s one of the great misfortunes of her life that she was born to fight. She never gives up, not ever. So she keeps trying and fighting and when it’s not enough, never enough, she puts it out of her mind and goes home, where it’s safe. She thinks about it the next day, not today, and she finds ways to get him back. And it works for a while, but then he leaves again, and “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” and he’s gone but she hopes. After all…tomorrow is another day!