He had a beard
My ex had a beard. We didn't have much in common, besides the fact that we were dating each other. We would take walks through the streets of Worcester and he would whisper sweet nothings in my ear. We held hands and shied away from big groups of college students who looked like they might be under the influence of something. We cuddled in my bed and I laughed a lot, happy to have found someone.
One time we sat on a stone bench, and he told me that my hair looked beautiful in the sunlight. Fall was creeping upon us; the leaves were orange and red and crisp and a bit of cold nipped the air. He had his arm around me and we watched people and cars; listened to sirens and yelling, laughter and excitement.
Eventually he broke up with me, about after a month of dating. He said he couldn't have peace of mind around me. We brought each other down. We fought a lot, and I felt jealous when he flirted with pretty girls. The day he broke up with me, he stood near my closet. He stayed far away like he thought I might attack him. He talked a lot, meaningless words spillied from his lips.
After a while he moved to my bed. He sat with his back hunched, his jacket still on. It was like his position indicated a sigh. I offered him a cookie, because I didn't know what else to do. He took the cookie, and he held it in his hands.
I wish I could say that I was passive, but I wasn't. I yelled at him, and I cried. I compulsively straightened the Polaroid pictures hanging on my closet door. He made me feel upset, and unattractive. Unwanted, mostly.
I guess it doesn't matter anymore, because at least I can say I've dated a man with a beard.