She first saw him from across the library on a cold winter afternoon. His jet black ponytail glistened in the fluorescent glow of the overhead lights. His black jeans and wallet chain told her that he was dangerous and untamed, yet his glasses and bowler suggested an elegant sophisticated air. Her breath froze in her chest like the icicles creeping down the window. She knew she must have him.

She studied him for hours from behind a book of 18th century Moroccan poetry that she had taken out for a humanities course in the subject. Everything about him made her fall more deeply in love. The way he scrawled into a worn leather bound journal bound with twine, the way he tipped his hat to passers-by, the way he cooly sipped his bottle of grape Fanta. How she wished she could be that bottle.

She needed to know his name. She leaned over to a girl at the next table over and asked for the moniker of the mysterious stranger."That kid? I dunno, he's an upperclassman. We just call him the Wolfman. He's fucking weir-"

Wolfman. What a fitting name for such a unique rebel she thought. Nothing seemed to bother him, even when his tip-of-the-hat was responded to with a seething "Fuck you dick-wad," or "Stop staring at my chest or I'll call the SRO." The men were obviously jealous of his mysterious aura, the girls of the fact that they knew they could not tame him. But I can, she thought. I shall tame the Wolfman.

She followed him to his car in the icy parking lot. He looked even more decadent and beckoning in the flickering glow of the street lights peppered with snowflakes. He opened his car door. She needed to say something to get his attention.

"HARG!"

Why had she yelled that? It was a stupid thing to yell. She was deeply embarrassed, but when she looked up, she realized with a flurry of joy that he had spotted her. She timidly approached him.

"Hello there, you may not know me, but I was wondering if I could have a ride home. I don't live too far, and wish not to walk in this dangerous weather."

He studied her with the watchful gaze of a mongoose, surveying a cobra before a fight.

"Ok," he replied, "but only if you sit in the back, I just put snakeskin covers on the front seats and don't want them to get messed up."

He drove her back almost methodically, if one ignored the lurches when changing gears. The 1992 Corolla slid into her driveway silently in the storm. She couldn't contain herself.

"Kiss me."

"Ok."

Their lips embraced warmly. He coughed. She drew away slowly with a smile painted across her face.

"That was amazing," she whispered.

"You taste like crawfish," he responded.

And so started their torrid affair. He would drive her home from Wihchitaw High School every afternoon, and they would end each encounter with a passionate draw on the lips. Her parents did not approve of the relationship, saying cruel things about him such as "That guy's a fucking weirdo," and "I bet he humps dogs." But she did not care. She loved him and that was all that mattered, although she had yet to tell him so out of hesitance.

One particularly snowy afternoon she invited him inside. Her parents had gone off to a business meeting in Montenegro, so she had the house to herself and the Venezuelan cleaning lady she could hear vacuuming upstairs. She decided to draw him in the basement, as she knew of his love of concrete and furnaces. He stood with her and looked around.

"This is pretty cool I guess. I saw a medieval castle that kind of looked like this once."

She wanted him.

"Those clothes look awful hot," she coyly stated.

"I wear black for stealth."

She felt the same anxiety as right before their first kiss. She looked into his grey contact lenses and told him what she had wanted to tell him for what felt like an eternity.

"I love you."

"I know."

Their bodies became entwined, and they made passionate love on the futon. It was the most magical 27 seconds of her adolescent life.

She awoke the next morning with no sign of the Wolfman but a note beside her head. She read it tearfully.

"Forgot to tell you, I'm moving back to Montana tomorrow. Took some Hot Pockets with me from your freezer."

Silently, she folded the note and tucked it away in her purse, where she kept it for the rest of her life. She never heard from him again, but dreamt of one day traveling to Montana to find him. She slowly accepted the fact that he was gone and moved on with her life, but she would never forget the five days they spent together in what she would passionately remember as "the week of the Wolfman."

Her last words on the inescapable day that she succumbed to death's icy grip were spoken with a tear.

"I have tamed him."

Turns out he really did hump dogs and was arrested and hanged in Montana.

Oh well.

Oh 44 oz. Slurpee, where can I begin? From the moment your unnatural green mass slid so seductively into my plastic container, I knew it was meant to be. The way you tasted on my virgin lips (Jolly Rancher green apple, delish!) tossed me into an ocean of euphoria. Our "honeymoon" if you will, was a fireworks display for all the senses. It wasn't until I had already emptied half of the container when I began to feel the strain in our relationship.

This is as hard for me to say as it is hard for you to hear. After the halfway point, I began to grow weary of certain traits of yours. The apple that had once enticed me had grown tired and sour. Your welcoming chill that helped me through the summer heat was now becoming a distinct coldness. But alas, I was foolish. I was sure that we could finish this and make our relationship complete.

I feel that I can be truthful now. Our last days were nothing short of a living Hell for me. The sweet syrupy goodness that you used to bombard me with was gone all together, replaced with something cold, hard and tasteless. I cannot finish you at this point. It is impossible for me to pretend I can enjoy you, when all I can think of is what a beautiful thing you were before. It's over, you and I. I can no longer pretend that I will one day complete you. You are no longer welcome in my house. This is goodbye. Please don't try to contact me, I already changed my phone number.

Oh, and you can keep the kids you bitch, I know they're not mine.

Whore.