June 7, 2003:

Young woman, blond, gray-eyed, roundish. Shortish Mod haircut with one dangling silver earring, a visitor's token from the Seattle World's Fair. Lovely shy smile. Fingernails bitten to the joints, bloody and raw, a nervous habit symptomatic of the deeper self-destructiveness you'll come to confront more and more nakedly over the next years.

You teach her to use fingernail clippers. She's nineteen, doesn't know what to do with them. You're twenty-five, it's summer, and you're losing your heart more and more irretrievably with each passing day.

Sad ending. Her fingernails grew back. Over time her destructiveness manifested itself in more serious forms: manipulativeness, alcoholism, drug abuse, combined with a paralyzing self-doubt which left her many times unwilling to leave the house. With your fates bound together you fell deeper and deeper into her nightmare, until her breakdown and its aftermath led to your own collapse.

Angry ending. Her bloody fingernails should have been your first clue. Probably there were other physical attributes monopolizing your attention.