They had been dating for a year. Danny was a wild spirit, spontaneous and constantly leaping first and then considering where to land as a minor afterthought. Olivia was stable, dependable, and a planner. They had the same politics, same carefully thought out morals, same distaste for religion, middle eastern food, and mindless television. Danny liked the bar scene, Liv preferred dancing in the clubs. One was better at math, the other at English, so the mathematically-inclined Olivia did all the accounting, and the more loquacious Danny wrote the emails and letters on both their behalf. Their mutual friends marveled at how so compatible they were, that they were similarly minded on all the major points, and where they differed, they provided the strength the other lacked. Dan and Olivia each brought some of themselves into the other’s life, creating balance out of the chaos of individuality.
That is, until Olivia started burning.
In her, you know, naughty bits.
Danny did some explaining, and Olivia did some packing, some crying, and then some throwing of vases at Danny’s head and genitals. For the most part, she missed.
For the most part. Heh. He limped for a few days, at least.
Six months later, Olivia’s still on antibiotics and cries into her pillow at night. Danny recovered faster, both physically and emotionally, and soon moved the object of his sexual indiscretion into his apartment and the same bed he so recently shared with Liv. They were together for the next five years.
Fast forward a few years after that.
Olivia ended up alone, while Danny went through several more women before he finally decided he was bisexual and moved to Brazil. Liv dated on and off for a few years, but met no one special enough for more than casual dating. Danny now has herpes, and seven children by six women, none of whom he sees regularly. Aside from avoiding the occasional court summons, he is altogether pleased with his freewheeling lifestyle. Liv died in carjacking incident at 31.
So much for happy endings, eh?