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My boyfriend, the comedian, took pleasure in telling me about rejection – how it came about, how to cope with dignity, how it had dangerous, possibly cancerous elements He said if I pinched just above my waistband, where the unfamiliar portions of fat resided, that’s what rejection felt like He claimed the link between cancer and repeated failure was irrefutable He had a lot of unusual ideas ‘Feel that,’ he said, grasping at my hips and thighs, ‘that’s the texture of rejection right there’   My boyfriend was famous and I wasn’t When I walked down our tree-lined street in the city, I came back with styrofoam cups of coffee, croissants, souvenirs I considered mailing back to friends When he walked down the street he returned aggrieved and frustrated by how much people adored him He sent me out a lot ‘Get my coffee extra-hot,’ he told me, like I was an assistant type ‘I want it so hot it feels like hell,’ I instructed the barista   I loved my boyfriend Our back and forth reminded me of black-and-white films I hadn’t seen Physically, we were unmatched On forms, we were in different age brackets: he ticked one box, I ticked another But we weren’t the sort of people who filled out forms He could get worked up about stuff he read on the internet and I knew how to make him happy ‘Here,’ I said, handing him a snow globe containing a miniature Empire State Building, ‘this is for you’ ‘You’re very sweet,’ he told me I guess it was true – I could be sweet I was Irish I didn’t want to rely on it too heavily, do that whole bit, degrade myself When my mother finalised the divorce from my father all she said was, ‘Never give people what they want’ It was such good advice At the party, where I first met him, I explained that I wasn’t a famous person and I had zero intention of becoming one I wanted to make him laugh I liked him That didn’t happen to me every day ‘Really,’ I said,