Local guest writer, Tina Jefferson, chimes in on the very emotional topic of discovering that your loved one is a blood-sucking fiend, and how exactly to handle the situation.
Hey gals. Tina here. After a long period of contemplation, I’ve finally decided to talk about something that’s been near and dear to my heart recently—and that’s my boyfriend, Steve. As you probably know, Steve is a really great guy, 6’2, blond hair, eyes the perfect width apart—but recently, we were having some problems, and I just didn’t know what to do!
It all started when we got Italian food one night. We went to my favorite Italian food place, which is the Olive Garden. The Olive Garden is my favorite place because it is exactly what authentic Italian food probably tastes like. I go there every Tuesday, sometimes with Steve, sometimes alone. I bring my work there because the atmosphere is so relaxing and pleasant. I especially love those five seconds of suspense before you say “when,” and the waitress just moves her hand around and around and the cheese—ah, such fresh, coveted parmesan!—falls softly, sensuously on my iceberg lettuce, just like the first snow of winter…
Anyway, I ordered my favorite dish (butter and garlic pasta, extra butter, extra garlic, extra pasta) when I saw Steve making a face.
“What?” I said.
“Are you really going to eat that? Extra garlic?” He wrinkled his nose.
“Yeah,” I said, starting to become defensive. What was he getting at, anyway? Steve and I had only been a little intimate up until that point—I only allowed him to kiss my left earlobe, gently—and I was starting to regret even that. I eyed Steve, who was looking at the drink menu. Who was this man, sitting across the table from me, not ordering extra-garlic on his authentic Italian dish? Who was this man I allowed to ever so gently nibble on my left earlobe?
The doubts from that night haunted me for weeks. I’m not an idiot. I read through the whole Twilight series—twice! Why would any normal human have a problem with garlic? It’s delicious.
It didn’t help my suspicions that Steve has always been a pale guy. But as the weeks passed, and my fears grew, I saw him for what he really was—pallid. And dangerously so. I was starting to make sense of it…but, dear reader, you must know that I didn’t want it to be true…I never wanted any of this. But facts are facts. My boyfriend Steve, who plays volleyball with his friends on Saturdays, drinks light beer, and sometimes goes with me to the Olive Garden, is—must be—a vampire.
I did what any normal, human girl would do when confronted with this issue. After all, this had been tormenting me for weeks. Last Friday, I suggested to Steve that we go to the Olive Garden, to talk.
“Again?” He said.
I nodded—of course I wanted to go to the Olive Garden.
“But that’s twice this week,” he said.
I froze. His fact-remembering skills were good—almost too good. I studied Steve’s face. He was playing on his phone. The light from his Facebook app glowed, creating a reflection on his glasses—had I simply not noticed it before?
I laughed outwardly at my own naivete, and, when Steve looked up to see what was funny, I laughed inwardly, at him.
Of course he was a vampire. On some levels, I guess I had always known.
So, we ended up going to the Olive Garden that night. Everything was delicious and most likely authentically Italian. When I had eaten my dish (butter and garlic pasta, extra butter, extra garlic, extra pasta), I rubbed my full belly and stared at my boyfriend. Suddenly, I knew something more important than his probably being a vampire. I knew that I loved him, and that I loved Italian food. And on that sunny Friday evening in an Ohio Olive Garden, I realized I had everything I could ever need.
So that’s it, ladies. It’s funny how these things go. My discovery about Steve being a vampire turned out to be a more important discovery about myself, and what I want out of life. It turns out, I don’t care what species my boyfriend is—as long as I have someone to eat my pasta with.
What about you? How did you react when you found out your significant other was some sort of monster? I’m so interested in hearing your stories—how we react to these things is so important, and can be such a growing experience, that I feel like we need to be more open about it with one another!
As always, thank you to the staff of PTN for allowing me to share my story. But above all, thank you to Olive Garden. You are the reason I keep on going.