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for the archetype's girlfriend
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"She was crazy," he said, because they always say this. Sometimes with an eyeroll. Sometimes with a head shake. Crazy. She demanded. She demanded and did not listen and she made him crazy so she must be instead. She was unstable. Prone to scenes. Dramatics, hysterics, but never generic. Never pliable. Exciting and frustrating, because he was not. He was easygoing. He was realistic. He was trying to make her happy. She was one in a long line of crazy girls he went easy around. We are only us in relief.
They both see what they don't want, and then think they know what they do. But the one doesn't follow the other, there's no equal sign, no equation here. Neither's quite true. She was crazy so he left to find stability. Or she was crazy so he stayed to save her. Or she was just a girl who wanted simple things and neither of them could understand. Foreign languages, missed connections, ships in the night.
"They were crazy," he says, with a dismissive wave of his hand, a move that cannot shake the crazy girls out of his head, where they are tied into his neurons in neverending repetitive patterns, or out of the darker recesses in his chest, where they have nuzzled into crevices and bitten off jagged chunks of beating muscle. "Crazy," he will say again, almost convincingly. And she will think "And I wonder who made them that way."