Alfred was a man of profound, almost spiritual, consideration. He wasn't a "hit it and quit it" kind of guy—that was far too crude. Alfred preferred the term "temporary soulmate." He didn't just want to sleep with a woman; he wanted to give her a memory so sparkling and cinematic that it would sustain her through the next three years of disappointing Hinge dates.
The problem, of course, was the exit. Alfred hated hurting feelings. He truly, deeply did. To him, breaking up was a messy, loud, and emotionally draining affair involving tears and "why" questions. So, Alfred decided long ago that the most merciful thing a man could do was not to break a heart, but to effectively delete himself from the space-time continuum.
The Queen for a Night
Her name was Clara, and she was the first "masterpiece" of Alfred's unique methodology.
The night started at a jazz bar that smelled of expensive bourbon and bad decisions. Alfred didn't just hit on her; he invested in her. He listened to her talk about her middle-management job at a logistics firm as if she were describing the discovery of fire. He looked into her eyes with the intensity of a man watching the season finale of his favorite show.
By 11:00 PM, she wasn't just Clara; she was a sovereign ruler.
"You have this... energy," Alfred whispered, leaning in just enough for her to smell his cedarwood cologne. "It's like you're the only person in this room who actually knows a secret the rest of us are dying to hear."
It was a line he'd practiced in the mirror, but he delivered it with such earnestness that Clara practically glowed. He took her back to a stunning penthouse apartment in the city—a place with floor-to-ceiling windows and a fridge stocked with organic blueberries and champagne.
The night was, by all accounts, legendary. Alfred was attentive, athletic, and whispered things about "destiny" that he would definitely regret if he ever had to repeat them under oath. As Clara drifted off to sleep, tucked under 800-thread-count Egyptian cotton, she felt like she had finally found the protagonist of her life story.
The Great Disappearing Act
At 6:30 AM, Alfred's internal alarm went off. He didn't use a phone alarm; the vibrations might wake the Queen, and a Queen deserves her rest.
He moved with the silent grace of a ninja who had majored in contemporary dance. He gathered his clothes, wiped his fingerprints off the wine glasses (a bit much, perhaps, but he liked the drama), and slipped out the front door.
Enter Marcus.
Marcus was Alfred's best friend and a man who possessed the emotional range of a brick. According to the plan, Marcus arrived at the penthouse at 8:00 AM sharp, wearing a bathrobe that was slightly too small for him and carrying a bowl of soggy cereal.
When Clara woke up to the smell of... not Alfred, but cheap Froot Loops... she wandered into the living room, wrapped in a sheet.
"Alfred?" she called out, her voice filled with the sweet residue of last night's romance.
Marcus looked up from the couch, milk dripping from his chin. "Who the hell is Alfred?"
Clara froze. "The guy... who lives here. Tall, cedarwood scent, life-changing eyes?"
Marcus let out a snort. "Lady, I don't know who you broke in with, but this is my place. I fell asleep in the guest room because the AC was acting up. If you're looking for a squatter named Alfred, you might want to check the bus station. Now, can you get out? I have a Zoom call with my accountant in ten minutes."
The confusion on Clara's face was a masterpiece of tragedy. She checked her phone. She called Alfred.
In a coffee shop three miles away, Alfred watched his phone buzz on the table. Clara "The Logistics Queen" was calling. He felt a pang of genuine sorrow. Oh, you poor, beautiful soul, he thought, biting into a croissant. It's better this way. If I stayed, I'd eventually forget your birthday or leave the toilet seat up. This way, I remain a mystery. A ghost. A legend.
He let the call go to voicemail. Then he blocked the number.
The Encounter
Three days later, the universe decided to play a prank. Alfred was at a high-end grocery store, debating the merits of artisanal mustard, when he saw her Clara.
She looked different. Her hair wasn't done, and there was a frantic, "I've-been-calling-the-police-and-my-telecom-provider" look in her eyes. Before Alfred could duck behind a display of organic kale, she spotted him.
"Alfred?!" she shrieked, her voice echoing off the deli counter.
Alfred froze. His brain scrambled for a trajectory. He looked at her, tilted his head slightly, and adopted an expression of polite, vacant curiosity.
"I'm sorry?" he said, his voice an octave higher than usual.
"Alfred! It's me! Clara! From Friday night? The penthouse? The 'secret only I know'?"
Alfred blinked slowly. He looked her up and down—not with lust, but with the mild concern one shows a stranger who is claiming to be an alien. "I think you have me mistaken for someone else, ma'am. My name is... Bartholomew. I just moved here from Toronto."
"Bartholomew? You have a mole on your left shoulder in the shape of the Big Dipper! I saw it!"
Alfred gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense. "Ma'am, please. I don't know what kind of shoulder-mapping you do in your spare time, but I am a man of the cloth. Well, a man of the mustard. I'm just trying to buy some things."
Clara stood there, her mouth agape, watching the man who had treated her like royalty seventy-two hours ago treat her like a mild public nuisance.
"You... you're Alfred," she whispered, her voice cracking.
"I'm Bartholomew," Alfred insisted with a warm, pitying smile. "But if this Alfred fellow is as handsome as you imply, I'm flattered. I hope you find him. He sounds like a real... character."
As he walked away, Alfred felt a surge of pride. He hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't called her crazy. He had simply provided an alternative reality where her feelings weren't hurt by him—they were hurt by a ghost named Alfred who didn't exist.
He reached the checkout line, humming a light tune. It was exhausting being this considerate, but someone had to do it.