Part 3: The morning after and goodbye

Outside, the sky is that wonderful bright blue of early morning, and the sun is gilding the lawn making the grass look orange. It looks like it will be a beautiful day, but inside, the kitchen is empty and silent. If the kettle has boiled, I do not know, so foolishly I touch it with the back of my hand, and it is indeed warm. The kettle has boiled but Mr Unavailable 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.

Daisy, in her blind honesty, has yet again managed to upset him, and the annoying thing is it’s over three things she supposedly did, and between them, they can only remember one!

He comes in, already tweed jacketed with shining footwear properly laced and strides straight to his small pile of bags that have nestled in the corner of the room. They await him faithfully, almost as though they weren’t sure where to go, but thought they might have been out of the way there and he picks up his satchel and tosses the brown leather strap 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!”

So, she’s not really sure how he can further hammer the point in, but she’s preparing herself for him to have a try. Or will he have found another nail for her coffin? His creativity in avoiding the central problem of trust and forgiveness, is increasingly creative so I am intrigued as to this next chapter in the saga of their ‘friendship’.

“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.”

She’s perched herself on the corner on one of the navy-blue corduroy sofas her parents brought about 15 years ago, and she remained unconvinced about until years later after sitting, and due to her illness lying, resting and sleeping on a number of sofas she began to appreciate how comfy and actually stylish these pieces of furniture were. Now, as she sits here, at this jaunty angle, if this was a play, it really would look fabulous 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 she’s 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.”

She repeats it, as clearly it needed to be said two times in his mind to emphasise the point, and as they both know she can get very confused, it’s best she clarifies she has heard and comprehended.

She’s sure she’s imagined it, but he might actually have started, in a surprised manner at the nonchalance in response, but that could just be in her head. This is all playing out in a bit of a blur, and as the train runs off the track, as a passenger, she looks at the safety card and does her 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 she can see that even he is realising that this 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. Daisy almost, knows acutely what she felt, and has a rough idea of how he was holding up, but the reality is it was all ‘ridiculousness’.

Only an hour before they had been having, experiencing, ‘sharing’ what she at least would have described 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, they 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 she has touched and kissed, who has the magic pheromone that makes her sparkle. When she smells him, his hair, his knack, his body, my body ignites, and there are Goosebumps, giggles, playful kitten like behaviours do emerge as she paws against any part of him, her plaything in an attempt to gain his attention.

With him, there is magnetism, a draw, more powerful than she has ever felt before. If ever there was a man who could be her jigsaw another piece, it is him.

And yet, like any story of love (at least on my side)  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 her has been destroyed. (Daisy gets the impression that this boy does not do half measures.) Although she does remain to be convinced that he ever had any trust or faith in her, 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?” she inquires 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. Daisy would love to think it would, she 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.

Daisy tries to smile, or at least construct a face of acceptance, but she has long ago learnt that she is like a book and a very visible well read one at that, so god knows what expression is pulled but Daisy hopes it was reasonable.

“We can just watch a film and chill…” she ventures these words, and leaves 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, Daisy can totally agree with him. Now he moves towards her, so tall, he leans forward, almost bends for a kiss until she turns my face, and then he gives her the weakest hug she thinks she has ever had. It really is as though he fears to touch her, and maybe in some way who she is, or what she says, does repulse him. Daisy doesn’t hold back with him; she always speaks my mind. Partly due to just who she is, how she has been brought up, what her life and education have accumulated to, maybe partly due to her hepatic encephalopathy the filter that once might have existed is gone. Daisy doesn’t do bullshit. She doesn’t hold back. She doesn’t just bend over to please or make people happy anymore. Daisy is not that girl. Daisy is not the girl who needed and wanted to be loved. Who was so desperately searching?  The new her 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.

Daisy’s friends don’t like him, and she probably shouldn’t have told him that. Well, let’s be honest, she definitely shouldn’t have told him that last night, but she had forgotten that bad behaviour should be ignored. But she just wanted, wanted so desperately for him to try harder. Having come empty handed so many times before, she had even dropped an unsubtle hint before he arrived, so to the COOP he had gone, as he is last 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 sarcastically?

“Typical girl, gets excited by the glitter.”

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

Daisy can see that she doesn’t fit the expected mould of who he should be with, who he should fuck. Little things, little thorns that prick her. Like the way last night when she jokingly mentioned her expensive bed cover, soiled with our fluids, she could have sworn she heard him say, “Well, I doubt anything in this house is expensive”, and how his other choice of fuck buddy is a rower.  ‘The Rower’. The ‘Rower’ who is a Doctor. 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 what 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 Unavailable 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 she laughs them off, she wonders why he can speak so cruelly for fun.

And here they are. The two of them. People, atoms, just bouncing around, and it could all be so fine, but no, in both of their lives they have been hurt and are now scarred and bruised from life and past relationships, and now they are here. While Daisy has 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. Daisy wishes, wishes so much that she could share what she has been through. If he could feel the fear, or feel the pain she has, 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 she sees?

He leaves, practically sprinting down the garden path, through the gate and away into the world to build a business empire. As always, Daisy really doesn’t know if she will ever see him again.

Daisy’s started talking to God recently. Well, she 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 Unavailable is a big fan, she thought she might as well get on board with some banter. Daisy’s God is forgiving. Daisy’s God is love. Daisy’s God is not like his God. No wonder religion causes wars.

It’s time to take the dogs out. Daisy wishes she could go back to bed and pull the covers up and over her. Hide the world. Hide from the world. But no, the world demands she face it, so out she goes, and the common is beautiful. Fresh and full of spring, not a soul to be seen, and it’s then that it hits her. How impossible this all is.

There truly seems nothing she can do to change how this is, and yet, and yet…

That tiny part of her, the part that hears Grandma singing ‘Que será, será’ knows that although there is six of her, and half a dozen of him, that what will be will be.

 

‘Que será, será’

“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

Whatever will be, will be

The future’s not ours to see

Que será, será

What will be, will be

Now I have children of my own

They ask their mother, what will I be

Will I be handsome

Will I be rich

I tell them tenderly

Que será, será

Whatever will be, will be

The future’s not ours to see

Que será, será

What will be, will be

Que será, será.”

 

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