So. Henry has found a rebound girl.
“Henry?” My father scrunched his face in confusion when I first referred to my ex by that name in conversation. Yes, I explained. I’ve begun calling him Henry in commemoration of Henry VIII, because of the way in which his entire character so unmistakably, strikingly recalls that of the illustrious megalomaniac. My father continued to scrunch his face as he considered. Then his face screwed around differently in cynical amusement. “You’re right. They both fall passionately in love with someone, and then they want to kill her.” Indeed, my ex shares everything with the infamous king from his power complex, to his grandiose, yet fragile self concept to his unchecked extravagance to his consecutive appropriation and then disposal of women like worn-out pantyhose with indefatigable efficiency. Even the portraiture is echoed in the present most eerily, in the same wide-legged, imposing stance of a self proclaimed alpha male that you see in the still-relevant portrayal painted back in the 1500s: The profile of a bloodthirsty narcissist evidently looks the same now the same as it did 500 years ago.