March 29

When I was in high school, I dated a boy who never spent his change. Instead, he would put all of it in an empty drawer in his dresser. Once a month or so, he'd put all the change into a sock and give it to a homeless person.

I once lent him my favorite sweatshirt, because that's what you do when you date people. After we broke up, I asked for it back. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "You're wearing it in your photo on your band's website," I told him. "Oh." He said. "I lost it."

One of his fingers was too short; I guess he'd lost the tip in an accident, but he never told me about it. He'd also dropped out of high school, and when we met in a park--he chased me down after I had walked past and told me that I was beautiful--he had just gotten out of rehab.

He was a terrible money manager, and always broke. Sometimes we'd hang out at the halfway house, all those sad, middle-aged men around trying to put their lives back together.

We didn't date very long. "I'm sorry," I told him. "I think we should take a break." He got in his van and drove away. "I know what that really means," he said as he was walking away from me.