"The Thief" | Memoir | Part I of VI | Foundations

While writing this story, my mind wanders to The Thomas Crown Affair, a film centered on an expensive theft.
 
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I once had a fleeting romance with a thief.
 
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Late one night, I found myself perched on the porch of my sister’s apartment building, puffing away at a cigarette, when a long, elegant, sky-blue Ford Thunderbird luxury car rolled up to the curb. The car itself was an enigma, and I’ve always had a soft spot for a good mystery.
 
I was curious about the individual behind the wheel. The man who emerged from the car had a chiseled face, eyes that tilted like a feline, and a sharp nose, and his muscles seemed to be at war with the fabric of his white t-shirt, especially around his forearms. He strode briskly up the sidewalk towards the apartment building.
 
Before he disappeared into the building where I was seated on the porch, he greeted me with a simple “Hello.”
 
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Later, we fell into a passionate affair. His presence lingered like perfume on a silk scarf, faint, unforgettable, and impossible to wash away without losing something precious.
 
He was residing with a woman because he was struggling to find employment.
 
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He confessed to me that he was a former thief.
 
He shared with me the secrets of life behind bars.
 
He admitted that his life of thievery was the most regrettable error he had ever made.
 
He acknowledged that his life was in disarray due to his decision to pursue a life of crime as a thief.
 
He confessed his feelings to me but also shared his wish to protect me from the difficulties he faced. Because of that, he felt he couldn’t reciprocate my love in a way that would lead to a committed relationship.
 
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His admissions only made me desire him more.
 
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Sometimes, we’d drive aimlessly through the city, windows down, jazz humming low from the dashboard. He’d point out places he once knew, bars, pawn shops, alleyways, and I’d listen, absorbing the poetry in his regret. He never glamorized his past, but he didn’t hide from it either. That honesty was its own kind of seduction.
 
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There were nights when I’d wake up thinking about him, wondering if he was safe, if he’d ever find peace. I never asked for promises, only presence. And for a while, he gave me that, his time, his stories, his silence.
 
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There were moments when I caught him staring into the distance, as if haunted by memories he couldn’t shake. I never asked what he saw. I simply sat beside him, letting silence do the work. In those quiet hours, I realized love doesn’t always arrive clean or convenient, it sometimes shows up bruised, beautiful, and fleeting.
 
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We spent stolen afternoons wrapped in conversation and longing, sipping lukewarm coffee and tracing dreams on napkins we’d never keep.
 
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I knew it wouldn’t last. But I also knew I’d never forget him.
 
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In the end, he wasn’t just the thief who stole my heart; he was the one who forever enchanted me with the heist of love.

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(Copyright © 2025 by Mia Z. Edwards. All rights reserved.)