The Cosmopolitan: The Millionaire: Study of the Two-Headed Greek
03/11/08 - This past summer I met a millionaire - at least, he sure acted like one. He owned properties of untold wealth in Newport, R.I. and rubbed elbows with politicians (he was among other things, a real-estate tycoon and an-almost-state Representative). I thought he was charming; nice eyes, dark features, he was Greek with good listening skills and a somewhat annoying laugh, and I liked him.
Of course there was the other stuff, the way he smelled suspiciously like Lipton onion soup mix, and the fact that for all intents and purposes, he was about the same height as me, plus the sex seemed entirely confusing, a grappling of limbs better left to wrestlers. Still, he was intensely interesting and very smart, and so we spent a month and a half courting one another. We were the social couple; nice dinner dates, dancing, lovely strolls through Newport.
"What are your thoughts about living with me in the mansion with my family? There would be no rent, obviously," he casually mentioned, like it was no big deal.
"Can I think about it? I might move in with my mother." I wasn't sure how I felt yet.
Two nights before I was due to leave the country, it was 2 a.m. when he woke me to inform me he had been retching, while I had been asleep, all night long.
I immediately rushed him to Newport Hospital, terrified of his moans and the way he helplessly clutched his stomach - I have never seen anyone so violently ill in my entire life.
And, though I had to be at work at 9 a.m., I stayed up all night, holding his hand and applying cold washcloths to his forehead. I held the bucket for him and yelled for nurses when appropriate, the man was terrified, what else could I do? As I walked into work the next day, still in my pajamas and covered with the anxious sweat my night had given me, a crushing scene transpired.
"Can I please go home and shower and change? I'll need an hour and a half to cross the bridge and get it together. I'm so sorry but I've been at the hospital all night."
"If you walk out that door, please leave your key." .. Huh? Really?
Jobless, exhausted, maddeningly frustrated, I felt comforted knowing that my trip, for five weeks in Canada to learn French, was the next day.
When it came time to leave, the millionaire and I said our goodbyes from across a room, lest I become ill as well, and communicated for much of my drive up to Canada via cell-phone.
I wish there was a sweet, tender way to describe how we ended, but unfortunately all I can tell you is that the bastard dumped me over the phone while I was roaming on my cell on a farm outside Montreal, pacing back and forth next to my red Chevrolet Cavalier, alone.
When I spoke of my hesitance to move into the mansion, he told me that I was trying to change him. His tone morphed into something completely different.
"Most girls would be thrilled to live in a mansion, and you can't make a few sacrifices?" he sneered into the receiver.
"Most girls? Who do you think you are? You think I should be SO impressed by your damn wealth!? I'm not with you for the money or mansions, how dare you!"
And that was the end of that relationship, oh, and job.
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