"My dear, sweet Patricia."

I met Patricia Howard last year around this time. She was teaching Sunday School at the Nazarene church when I asked the pastor to introduce her to me. He was hesitant to comply because he felt that I would be a bad influence on her. He took me into his office for a private conference in which he asked me what my intentions were with Patricia, who, he said, was like a daughter to him.

"I'm glad you asked", I responded. "That's a sure sign of a minister doing his job when he's so concerned with his congregation." I didn't say this to mock or belittle him, though it might have looked that way to a casual obsever.

"Truth be told", I continued, "I just like a girl with short hair, glasses and a pretty face." Which was the honest-to-God truth. Ms. Howard met all the criteria, I informed the preacher, and I was anxious to find out if there was a tiger in her tank. I suspected there was.

The pastor coughed, straightened up his tie and told me, looking straight in my eye, "She's a good girl, Jimbo. Don't do her no wrong!"

"That's the furthest thing from my mind, sir. I don't know what in the world could have given you the impression that I meant to do her harm. I just think she's one sexy mamma-jamma who might want to rock and roll all night with me. And who knows? If she can hang with me on that, maybe we can party every day! What do ya say?"

He cleared his throat. Fact is he had every reason to think my contact with her might be harmful. Not harmful like a serial killer is harmful. Not even harmful like a deranged pervert could be harmful. It's just that he knew how cruel I could be. He knew all about my sordid past, as I had confessed it all to him throughout the years. He knew the real reason I kicked my first wife out of the house. He knew about all the toad frogs I killed when I was a kid. Most of all, he knew how I liked to manipulate the minds of pretty young women and degrade them with verbal abuse. I'd tried to convince him that all that was in the past, I was a changed man, I wouldn't hurt a flea. Whether he believed me or not was anybody's guess, but I guess he was willing to give me one more chance because he did introduce me to Patricia.

I took her to dinner that night and she seemed rather shy and reserved. She spoke very little. At first I thought she was just uncomfortable around me, as she had every right to be since the reverend had told her what a bastard I was. But I thought, "no...she's been warned. She knows I'm an asshole. It must be something else".

I ordered another bottle of wine, poured her a glass, and decided to break the ice.

"Is there something on your mind?", I asked her. "Don't you like the restaurant?"

"Oh, I suppose it's alright", she replied, but I could tell she was not digging the scene. I mean, four bottles of wine between the two of us and she still had that "I'd-rather-be-anywhere-but-here" look on her face.

I was willing to do anything to put a smile back on that pretty face. What had started out being a mild fascination with a Sunday School teacher that I found quite attractive had grown into the desire to make her my own, to give her a ring, to give up my nights of rocking and rolling, to forsake my daily partying, to spend the rest of my life with her, just as I had wanted to spend the rest of my life with countless other girls I'd met throughout the years.

"Is there somewhere else you'd like to go?"...I was more than willing to oblige. "Just tell me."

"Actually...",...a pause..."there is..."...another pause, this one pregnant.

"Yes? Yes?"

"What I really want", she said with a serious look on her face, "is to go out back to the alley, befriend a couple of winos, burn a fire in a trash can, roll around on the ground just long enough to soil or clothes, barter with a junkie for some used needles and shoot up some crystal meth. Then you can take me home and we'll call it a night."

I was stunned.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, there was only one wino in the alley and he wasn't inclined to be friendly. There wasn't a trash can in sight so we had to be content with lighting a couple of old newspapers and watching them burn. We were, however, able to get our clothes soiled and we did obtain some used needles. I don't think the guy who we got them from was a junkie, though. But he was willing to trade us two nasty syringes for all the jewelry Patricia was wearing (he also got away with my wallet, but that's another story).

Of course, the highlight of the evening was filling those suckers up with the dope and sticking 'em in each others' arms. What a feeling that was! So much better than the date I had planned out. And you know what? As good-looking as I thought she was the first time I laid eyes on her during an evening worship service, she was positively stunning when seen through the haze of a good narcotic buzz.

I took her home much later that night...in fact, it might have been the next morning, as time had lost it's value by that point. She had won my heart. I made a promise to myself that I would never degrade her, nor would I ever abuse her, physically or mentally, no matter how much I might want to. Most importantly I decided I would ask for her hand in marriage the next time I saw her.

But noone ever saw her again.