Part 1: How did we come to be here?

Friday 18th of Match 2019

Outside, the sky is that wonderful bright blue of early morning, and the sun is gilding the lawn making the grass look orangey gold. It looks like it will be a beautiful day, but inside, the kitchen is dark, cold, empty and silent. If the kettle has boiled, I know do not know, so foolishly I touch it with the back of my hand, and it is indeed warm. So, the kettle has boiled but he is nowhere to be seen, and from that, I assume he is outside, probably pensively smoking his roll-ups. There are no signs of coffee preparation, the cafeteria is still in the dishwasher, and I see this lack of care of the water temperature as a sign of what is to come. (Boiling water scolds’ coffee, if he isn’t drinking it why would he care.) He won’t be staying long. As soon as he can depart, he will. I, in my blind honesty, have yet again managed to upset him, and the annoying thing is it’s over three things I supposedly did, and between us, we can only remember one!

He comes in, already tweed jacketed with shoes properly laced and strides straight to his small pile of bags that have nestled in the corner of the room, almost as though they weren’t sure where to go, but thought they might have been out of the way here and picks up his satchel and tosses the brown leather with a juicy thud over his shoulder. The wall that juts out into the open plan space is a perfect leaning aid, and almost as if he is too tired to stand while here now, he leans up against it and looks me straight in the eyes.

I take a deep breath and mentally brace myself. Part of me inside quietly says, ‘Here we go… again.”

He has already declared upstairs that, “This is it! No more sex! You make me feel bad! You attack me. I’ve got too much on with my company to deal with this!”

I’m not really sure how he can further hammer the point in, but I’m preparing myself for him to have a try. Or will he have found another nail for my coffin? His creativity in avoiding the central problem is increasingly creative so I am intrigued as to this next chapter.

“You make me upset. The things you say, they aren’t nice, and I warned you about this, and developing feelings, and look? Just look where we are. That really is it. No more sex. We can be friends. But not friends who have sex. I just can’t have this in my life. I’m too busy. Most companies flounder in their early months and this, this is my time.”

I’ve perched myself on the corner on one of the navy-blue corduroy sofas my parents brought about 15 years ago, and I remained unconvinced about until years later after sitting, and due to my illness lying, resting and sleeping on a number of sofas I began to appreciate how comfy and actually stylish these pieces of furniture were. Now, as I sit here, at this jaunty angle, if this was a play, it really would look great to the audience, the two leads, having this final scene closing conversation.

A combination of really rather serious fatigue, emotional pain, resignation to how this will play out, and a blanket of numb acceptance has settled over me and I’m in no mood for trying to argue a case, when the intended party has earmuffs on and their head in the sand.

“Ok. No sex.”

I repeat it, as clearly it needed to be said two times in his mind to emphasise the point, and as we both know I can get very confused, it’s best I clarify I have heard and comprehended.

I’m sure I’ve imagined it, but I actually think, he might have started, in a surprised manner at my nonchalance in response, but that could just be in my head. This is all playing out in a bit of a blur, and as the train runs off the track, as a passenger, I look at the safety card and do my best to adopt the brace position.

“And I won’t send any more naughty or fun pictures….”

“Well, no, that’s fine…” he stumbles a bit now on the words, and I can see that even he is realising that is a bit confusing after the first statement. But this is where, in that chaotic moment of him leaving, it’s so hard to know exactly what was said. I know acutely what I felt, and I have a rough idea of how he was holding up, but the reality is it was all ridiculousness’.

Only an hour before we had been having, experiencing, ‘sharing’ what I at least would describe as ‘great sex’. The sort of sex where you both enjoy it, and an increased familiarity and understanding that occurs as time goes by had meant that actually, yes, we were beginning to press each other’s buttons. When so much in life is planned, formal or regimented by society, how joyful and delicious in that informal intimacy you experience with another being in this world? How juicy is the taste of their kisses, and their skin as you lick it, and suck it, bite and nibble? How real and vital is the body and its warmth as you both entwine yourselves? How naughty and exciting are the sounds, of flesh against flesh, slapping, and sticking as you both become moist with the sweats of your labours and the juices that flow.

He is the only one, the only man of the men I have touched and kissed, who has the magic pheromone that makes me sparkle. When I smell him, his hair, his knack, his body, my body ignites, and there are Goosebumps, giggles, playful kitten like behaviours do emerge as I paw against any part of him, my plaything in an attempt to gain his attention.

With him, there is magnetism, a draw, more powerful than I have ever felt before. If ever there was a man who could be my jigsaw other piece, it is him.

And yet, like any story of the love we are pushed apart by three things that neither of us can really remember, he cannot forget or forgive, and out of all of that, the not so small fact is that his trust in me has been destroyed. (I get the impression for evermore; this boy does not do half measures.) Although I do remain to be convinced that he ever any trust or faith in me, ever, at all).

Every part of him is itching to go, and the floor is quite possibly burning through his shoes from the shuffling.

“Will you be back tonight?” I inquire with as much optimism as someone who has can see their tire is flat, knows there is no spare and has a long journey ahead can muster.

“I will call at lunchtime.”

That won’t happen. I would love to think it would, I really would, as to hear his voice on the phone is to get a little hit of pleasure as his voice like honey drawls down the line. But realistically he will be too busy to call, and secondly, a phone call would be difficult as then he has to in-person explains why he won’t be coming back tonight, now there is no sex allowed and he feels wronged.

I try to smile, or at least construct a face of acceptance, but I have long ago learnt that I’m like a book and a very visible well read one at that, so god knows what expression I pulled but I hope it was reasonable.

“We can just watch a film and chill…” I venture these words, and leave them dangling, as he now shuffling, repositions his bag and picks up the other assortment of belongings.

“I know. I am running off,” he mutters, and on one of these rare occasions, I can totally agree with him. Now he moves towards me, so tall, he leans forward, almost bends for a kiss until I turn my face, and then he gives me the weakest hug I think I have ever had. It really is as though he fears to touch me, and maybe in some way I do, or what I say, does repulse him. I don’t hold back with him; I always speak my mind. Partly due to just who I am, how I have been brought up, what my life and education have accumulated to, maybe partly due to my hepatic encephalopathy the filter that once might have existed is gone. I don’t do bullshit. I don’t hold back. I don’t just bend over to please or make people happy anymore. I’m not that girl. I’m not the girl who needed and wanted to be loved. Who was so desperately searching. The new me is a new person, and at the end of the day, having sex taken out of life when you are so exhausted is hardly the end of the world.

My friends don’t like him, and I probably shouldn’t have told him that. Well, let’s be honest, I shouldn’t have told him that last night, but I had forgotten that bad behaviour should be ignored. But I just wanted, wanted so desperately for him to try harder. Having come empty handed so many times before, I had even dropped an unsubtle hint before he arrived, so to the COOP he had gone, last as he is of the big spenders. He arrived with a COOP Chardonnay and truffles that literally had the sparkle of glitter dusted over them to the point they made her exclaim, “They sparkle!”

And he had retorted, almost hortily?

“Typical girl gets excited by the glitter.”

I am not what he should want. But when do we ever get to really choose these things?

I can see that I don’t fit the expected mould of who he should be with, who he should fuck. Little things, little thorns that prick me. Like the way last night when I jokingly mentioned an expensive bed cover, soiled with our fluids, I could have sworn I heard him say, “Well, I doubt anything in this house is expensive”, and how his other choice of fuck buddy is a rower. You don’t find many lower or lower-middle-class girls choosing to row, it’s the type of sport which is normally a university, local club, or ‘nice’ private education provides an introduction to and from he says, the company he keeps when he keeps it is all pretty Sloane like. His most recent wedding attendance was for a ‘Katie and Oliver’, what I would consider typical names of the upper classes. (This is Information I deduced from the photo he sent to me of the wedding dessert plate, which consisted of crumble, cheesecake, brownie and ice cream. Well, it is hard to satisfy every palette while you are serving 150 of your ‘nearest and dearest. Even Mr UP thinks this last bit is ridiculous, an ‘intimate gathering to celebrate your special day’.)

The truth is, when you fear someone, when you fear them hurting you more, and you are used to men, using you and saying hard, harsh horrible things, maybe you do hear them when they aren’t spoken, but with him, his jokes are sometimes a little close to the wire, and although I laugh them off, I wonder why he can speak so cruelly for fun.

And here we are. The two of us. People, atoms, just bouncing around, and it could all be so fine, but no, in both of our lives we have been hurt and are now scarred and bruised from life and past relationships we are here. While I have faced death and been given a second chance, he thinks he has time, time to have his moments of ‘trust’ that can’t be regained and wounds that can’t be healed. How little he knows. I wish, wish so much that I could share what I have been through. If he could feel the fear, or feel the pain I have, would he still be so quick to close the door or the possibility of something? And yet, he has been in a car accident that nearly killed him and brought him closer to God, and he has had a life-threatening medical condition so why does he not see what I see?

He leaves, practically sprinting down the garden path, through the gate and away into the world to build his business empire. As always, I really don’t know if I will ever see him again. I’ve started talking to God recently. Well, I was talking to Grandma a lot anyway so adding in another invisible entity didn’t seem such a big deal. He seems to get a good review on Trust Pilot and since Mr UP is a big fan, I thought I might as well get on board with some banter. My God is forgiving. My God is love. My God is not like his God. No wonder religion causes wars.

It’s time to take the dogs out. I wish I could go back to bed and pull the covers up and over me. Hide the world. Hide from the world. But no, the world demands I face it, so out I go, and the common is beautiful. Fresh and full of spring, not a soul to be seen, and it’s then that it hits me. How impossible this all is. There truly seems nothing I can do to change how this is, and yet, and yet… That tiny part of me, the part that hears Grandma singing ‘Que será, será’ knows that although there is six of me, and half a dozen of him, that what will be will be.

“When I was just a little girl

I asked my mother, what will I be

Will I be pretty

Will I be rich

Here’s what she said to me

Que será, será

Whatever will be, will be

The future’s not ours to see

Que será, será

What will be, will be

When I grew up and fell in love

I asked my sweetheart, what lies ahead

Will we have rainbows

Day after day

Here’s what my sweetheart said

Que será, será

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s