Those Criminal Bambi Eyes
I'm the luckiest person alive. I really should buy a lottery ticket and retire early. Why? Because what are the chances? What are the chances that your boss sends you to buy coffee, then you open the newspaper while waiting for your order, then... You find your ex-girlfriend's picture on page two? Nabbed by cops. Not for murder, thank God—so maybe I'm not that lucky. Anyways, she was caught scamming a man twice her age, and when I read the article, I was like, whoa! I never knew she had it in her!
Well, I felt she had it in her, especially after what I went through, but I never thought she'd actually try and swindle an old geezer off his money... I really dodged a bullet, didn't I? That old geezer could have been me, and I'm not even that old... Or rich... and I think that's why she dumped me. Best day of my life. I was hoping she'd dump me. I was going to dump her, but whenever I thought of that, she'd go Bambi eyes on me, and... What can I do?
At least now, I don't have to deal with those Bambi eyes anymore.
Ah, those Bambi eyes. Look at her. And that Cheshire cat smile. So criminal. Literally, as it turns out. My friends hated her, called her my ball and chain. One even called her a succubus. Who calls anyone succubus? My friends. Tabletop gamers. Pen and paper stuff. That's what RPG—"role-playing games"—does to your vocabulary. At first I thought they were just jealous. Among all of us, I was the first to have a girlfriend. Her. I always kept telling them, "the real girls are out there!"
I'm being unfair. Stereotyping them. But that's what I thought at the time. I'd continually skip gaming sessions or bail out early, yes, because of her. No, I wasn't going to take one for the team in your fictitious world when there's a girl waiting for me in the real one.
Real. And now I read about her in the newspaper. When did she turn to a life of crime? Way after she broke up with me? Right after? Or... Wait. I couldn't have been her victim, right? Yes, I spent a fortune on her... Well, to me, it was a fortune. How many collectibles did I have to give up for her? How many of my prized collector's items did I have to sell? They were in mint condition, mind you. I know how to take good care of things. If I could take good care of my collection, how much more someone I cared for?
No. I didn't get scammed. I gave everything to her willingly. I volunteered before she asked. I prided myself for knowing what she wanted before she even asked for it. No, it must have been after.
But how soon after us did she become... This? Why should I care? Now, after everything that happened? Yeah, she did try to soften the blow. Sounded nice, nowhere close to bad as what that “Robert” character did to that musician girl… You guys should really read that story here… She said something to the effect of her being so stupid as exchanging a diamond for fake jewelry. Then I realized that, after everything we went through, all I was worth to her was fake jewelry.
Now that I think about it, it serves her right. She'll be brought to a place where her Bambi eyes will count for little.
What am I thinking? She's going to jail, for crying out loud! Sure, I want retribution for everything that happened to me: I can't hang out with my friends anymore without them harping about how much she weaseled out of me. All those collectibles I have to rebuild. That, and those eight months I could have spent doing something else. I mean, I could have done something more with my life.
Do I want retribution? Do I really want vindication? Hell yeah. But jail time? How much jail time is her crime worth? Somehow, I imagine the cartoony devil and angel appearing over my shoulders. My devil tells me to be happy. My angel tells me not to relish the moment. Her crime was against the old geezer, not me. Her—let's call it what it is: bitchiness—as painful as it was to me, isn't the reason she's going to jail.
A third voice pipes in: maybe I should visit her.
My devil tells me, "yes, do. Gloat away."
My angel says yes as well, but for a nobler reason. "She doesn't have anyone caring for her. Why do you think she turned to a life of crime?"
Maybe... Was I at fault? Was it because I couldn't give what she needed?
Her picture in the newspaper stares back at me. Teary-eyed. Bambi-eyed. Man, even a still photo of hers still holds much charm.
My phone rings. It's my boss. Probably wondering what happened to her coffee.
Well, time to run back to the office. Little does my boss know that she just saved me from those Bambi eyes. I guess I'm lucky after all.