The music was bad, and unfortunately, his future plans revolved around it.
We liked each other for the shared drawl, reminding us we were homesick. I think that’s where the list ended.
He assigned me kegels and complained about my progress; pushed me to write lyrics, then critiqued them mercilessly. We watched “A Christmas Story” on the floor of his heatless apartment and when I got strep throat, he didn’t take me to urgent care.
When we broke up, it was because I “wasn’t serious enough.” I had refused to drop out of college to tour with him and his nonexistent band.