Beautifully cruel best describes her, based on my experience, anyway. We weren't terribly tight, a passing intimacy, shadows crossing at sunset. I desired her and hated my desire. She wasn't my type -- few were or are, but Elaine was really not my type. Too anal retentive for my sloppy self. Too picky, testy, snide. Elaine took pride in her meanness, lending a cool surface to unforgiving edges.
She was bright but not smart. All she cared about was money. She viewed people as extras, shooting sharp looks at those perceived dull. But she loved my writing, or so she claimed. Was Elaine my audience? Is this who I appealed to? Her physical beauty diminished my concerns, further evidence of my shallowness and obsession with sex. Only we never slept together. Occasionally kissed, nothing erotic. There was mild flirtation and double entendre. I saw her in t-shirt and panties a few times, but never felt the urge to act. I appreciated Elaine's firm young form, yet it seemed as cold as her expression.
I preferred crazy women, passionate women, women who'd as soon kill me as fuck me. Their theatrics gave me a place to hide. It was in another's madness that my madness made sense. I could breathe. Elaine provided no resting place; if she had one, she would've torched it long ago. With her I stood in freezing rain. It was funny at first, then amusing, finally intolerable. I had my fill of her emptiness and lack of empathy. I may be a prick, but I can cry at falling leaves, an old man's pity, memories of faded affection. Such is my torment. What deep down is Elaine's?