Lolita Of all the women I've dated, in any such broad definition of the word, there is one in specific that I wish things had worked out with. She was six years younger, which didn't bother me because she had an incredible maturity to her that, at first, seemed to surpass my own.

We met at a party where we refused to give in to typical conversation. After we kissed in my car, and then hers, the sun came up, separating us from that night forever. Over the next year, feelings flared and faded. We dated, officially, for three days, and that was when I noticed her youth.

In the beginning, she never chose me, she chose to make no choice at all. The air of maturity around her was thinned by an innocence that I hadn't seen before.

She was beautiful, athletic, creative, musical, and intelligent. The most captivating woman I've ever known. Our conversations never lulled, our beliefs and interests varied only slightly, and when we held each other, our hearts beat united. But we met too young.

Such an awkward irony that when we first met, she was reading Lolita.  ¶ 7:28 AM