"He Seems Nice"

You can be whoever you want to be (for at least 3 months)

My name is Ralph. Since I moved to the city, I've been telling new people I meet that it is pronounced Raif.

"Like the actor Ralph Fiennes," I'll say before I fulfill the facade. "Maida Vale. And no, I don't return as often as I like."

Then a glint in their eye as the current shifts. 

What would have been a dismissive smile pivots to obsequious curiosity. To them, Ralph would have been a forgettable fellow from Des Moines oppressed by nominative determinism. But Raif from across the pond wears cream linen trousers and shops at gourmet groceries. Fresh baguettes poke out of his bag like a quiver of arrows as he scans his herbs and flirts with the cashier…

"Basil for elegance, my dear, Rhodiola to remedy my adrenal fatigue."

It's amazing how comfortable we feel with strangers based on associations. I dated Prue for 6 months because the way her upper lip curled when she smiled reminded me of my high school sweetheart, and it made me feel safe and young.

I cheated on Prue with someone far less attractive. She shouted, "At least do it with someone hotter than me and make it worth it!" 

I told her, "Even if you have Filet mignon six nights a week, sometimes, you crave a cheeseburger off the value menu." 

This was the appropriate analogy because we bonded over what I coined as our epicurean indulgences, and I ultimately won her over with my cooking. 

When I say 'my cooking,' I mean that I'd order takeout from Petite Bête, transfer it into my own pans, and serve it to her in a tizzy of preoccupied relief…

"Forgive my nerves--I have literal nightmares of burning the scalloped potatoes!" Then, I'd rush back to transfer the truffle oil from the plastic container into an antique serving cup I'd bought at Goodwill. 

“How my Nan adored this porcelain—you'd have thought they were her other grandchildren."  

In the big blowout, Prue called me a compulsive liar. "An impulsive liar," I corrected her, insisting the discrepancies often surprised me just as much.

The thing is, most of the women who hate me for cheating never find out I never did…

I read in the comments section of my favorite podcast that women actually find men who cheat more dangerous and are attracted to the challenge of fixing them. So, for years, I'd confessed to infidelities I had never committed. Mostly, it worked, and I'd enjoy six months of, albeit vitriolic, undivided attention and vengeful sex. For those who ended things immediately, I just lived with the lie. It seemed honorable that way.

But with Prue, I wanted to up the ante—authenticate the indiscretion. I struggled. I tried to believe my saga of self-sabotage and assured her that my inability to be faithful must be linked to my father never teaching me to drive a manual. But it felt off. 

Eventually, I confessed to the rouse—that my cheating was not motivated by lust but by an elaborate plan to substantiate her risk and ultimately win her love.

At that moment, I had no choice but to admit to her and, more importantly, to myself that I was a good person. 

I came clean about my name and dropped the accent.

Before Prue left, she disparaged me about my sneaker lifts and drone obsession. The last text I sent her read, “Well, I guess OBTAINING A LICENSE didn't legitimize my hobby.”

It's hard to know what women want, but apparently, it is not a good man. Maybe a fairy tale with enough truth to justify believing it to their friends…

“How was Prue to know he wasn't a real pilot?"

"LOL. I’d take him back if he kept the accent."

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Photo taken by Raq Berg at an acoustic show I played in Joshua Tree with Lauren Ruth Ward.