matter how old, how wise, how pragmatic we get, we still want perfection in our relationships. And why shouldn’t we? But the problem is, have we a right to expect it?’
Which strange and unsettling piece of wisdom was not only the most profound exchange of thought we had ever shared as a couple, but also seemed to signal the end of our brief entanglement, as he then re-sited the fridge magnet again (why? With what significance?) and made all the movements that herald a parting; saying ‘anyway’, ‘right-ho’, and patting his keys. I followed him back through the hall, still digesting his words.
‘I think we have every right,’ I said. ‘But whether we find it or not is quite another matter. I hope you do, Phil. I hope things work out with Karen this time.’
Her name felt unfamiliar on my tongue, and I half wished it didn’t. Why had we never talked about this?
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘We’ll see.’
I opened the front door and watched him stride down the path. In retreat mode he seemed somehow more elusive and desirable, but even as I stood and absorbed the loss of a man I never really had in the first place, I knew the feeling to be treacherous; as borne out by the memory of countless failed re-kindlings of teenage affairs. I brought to mind our brief history of sexual encounters. His flat. My house. His flat. My house again. Two beds. Two bodies. Two very separate people. No rush of desire, no wild passion, no great need . I’d never really desired Phil as wholeheartedly as I ought to have done. Just convinced myself I had, in the way that you do when you face the stark possibility that fluttering hearts are the exclusive domain of the young.
We did all the waving and earnest cheerio-ing that the situation called for, then I shut the front door on the dour winter night.
Back in the kitchen, two things occurred to me. One was my magnet - now positioned top left - and the peculiar part it had played as we talked. The other, and altogether more...more... well, something , was the feeling that skirted the edge of my stomach when the words ‘Adam Jones’ floated back into my mind. Not a fluttering exactly, but a definite stirring. Affirmation, at any rate, of a functioning heart.
My father slopped in. (Oh dear. Men in mules. Yeuch.)
‘Look at that,’ I said, pointing. ‘Take a set square to that magnet, you’d be hard pushed to better it. Perfectly perpendicular with the top of the fridge.’
‘Do what, my love?’
‘Right angles, Dad. Their importance in the scheme of things. Or lack of. Just thinking about the big picture. You know?’
Anal. Just like I’d said all along.
Midnight.
A half dozen hours down the line and I look into my heart and do not like what I see. I suppose I expected to feel something a little more meaningful than just plain old non-plussed about Phil, but why? Why should I? I was non-plussed with him; now I’m non-plussed without him. No big difference there. The real trouble is the something else that’s whizzed in where the feelings of loss and aloneness should be. Hmm.
In short, I have taken to bed an emotion that I don’t quite know what to do with, plus cocoa in a stupid, difficult to drink out of, lump-of-chocolate shaped promotional mug. Plus I’ve also taken to bed a print out of email from Dan to Ben (Hi Short! How you doing? Twisted Mum’s arm yet ?etc. etc.) and (ohmyGod) another email from griffith. Or Griffith? Or Clam Digger From Tenby, perhaps? Every incarnation is markedly less stressful-to-deal-with than ‘Adam Jones; friend, shag listee, General practitioner, boss’s husband’ etc. Whatever.
The email reads; Charlie, don’t quite know what to say, except how sorry I am. And that it seems such a shame we have to stop all this now. It’s been fun, hasn’t it? Thank you . Adam.
I experience a smidgin of irritation at that specific underlining. Thank you for what? A good laugh at my expense?
I creep mournfully under a blanket depression at the
Which strange and unsettling piece of wisdom was not only the most profound exchange of thought we had ever shared as a couple, but also seemed to signal the end of our brief entanglement, as he then re-sited the fridge magnet again (why? With what significance?) and made all the movements that herald a parting; saying ‘anyway’, ‘right-ho’, and patting his keys. I followed him back through the hall, still digesting his words.
‘I think we have every right,’ I said. ‘But whether we find it or not is quite another matter. I hope you do, Phil. I hope things work out with Karen this time.’
Her name felt unfamiliar on my tongue, and I half wished it didn’t. Why had we never talked about this?
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘We’ll see.’
I opened the front door and watched him stride down the path. In retreat mode he seemed somehow more elusive and desirable, but even as I stood and absorbed the loss of a man I never really had in the first place, I knew the feeling to be treacherous; as borne out by the memory of countless failed re-kindlings of teenage affairs. I brought to mind our brief history of sexual encounters. His flat. My house. His flat. My house again. Two beds. Two bodies. Two very separate people. No rush of desire, no wild passion, no great need . I’d never really desired Phil as wholeheartedly as I ought to have done. Just convinced myself I had, in the way that you do when you face the stark possibility that fluttering hearts are the exclusive domain of the young.
We did all the waving and earnest cheerio-ing that the situation called for, then I shut the front door on the dour winter night.
Back in the kitchen, two things occurred to me. One was my magnet - now positioned top left - and the peculiar part it had played as we talked. The other, and altogether more...more... well, something , was the feeling that skirted the edge of my stomach when the words ‘Adam Jones’ floated back into my mind. Not a fluttering exactly, but a definite stirring. Affirmation, at any rate, of a functioning heart.
My father slopped in. (Oh dear. Men in mules. Yeuch.)
‘Look at that,’ I said, pointing. ‘Take a set square to that magnet, you’d be hard pushed to better it. Perfectly perpendicular with the top of the fridge.’
‘Do what, my love?’
‘Right angles, Dad. Their importance in the scheme of things. Or lack of. Just thinking about the big picture. You know?’
Anal. Just like I’d said all along.
Midnight.
A half dozen hours down the line and I look into my heart and do not like what I see. I suppose I expected to feel something a little more meaningful than just plain old non-plussed about Phil, but why? Why should I? I was non-plussed with him; now I’m non-plussed without him. No big difference there. The real trouble is the something else that’s whizzed in where the feelings of loss and aloneness should be. Hmm.
In short, I have taken to bed an emotion that I don’t quite know what to do with, plus cocoa in a stupid, difficult to drink out of, lump-of-chocolate shaped promotional mug. Plus I’ve also taken to bed a print out of email from Dan to Ben (Hi Short! How you doing? Twisted Mum’s arm yet ?etc. etc.) and (ohmyGod) another email from griffith. Or Griffith? Or Clam Digger From Tenby, perhaps? Every incarnation is markedly less stressful-to-deal-with than ‘Adam Jones; friend, shag listee, General practitioner, boss’s husband’ etc. Whatever.
The email reads; Charlie, don’t quite know what to say, except how sorry I am. And that it seems such a shame we have to stop all this now. It’s been fun, hasn’t it? Thank you . Adam.
I experience a smidgin of irritation at that specific underlining. Thank you for what? A good laugh at my expense?
I creep mournfully under a blanket depression at the
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