see you next tuesday.....

Two weeks after the initial and ineffectual ‘dumping’ text, it’s time to finish this thing off and face the silence. I wait till 11.30am. I text him to say we have to meet today to close the chapter.

I go out to buy some hideous-smelling foam cleaner with which to try and frantically eradicate the stain he made on the carpet. Fucking great. Got to stare at that forever. The red wine spilt at half four in the morning when I think I’m about to get it but actually he’s about to disappear from my life forever. The stubborn stain I cannot remove, no matter how much I pretend it doesn’t exist.

I go to the seafront, bumping into a friend. We dine on beans on toast and chat. My soul is empty but my lily is open. It’s nice. Then at 2.30pm the boy texts back to say ‘sure thing’. Oh how cheery this whole affair is, how deep, how meaningful. What a lovely ‘sure thing’.

4.30pm comes and I boldly board the 49 bus to the park and choose a spot in the sun. To the left some young girls are talking about some shitty art project featuring themselves. They sound so young and pointless. I realise it’s the gangly frickin model he tried to fuck that turned him down. I’m not moving. They pilfer some rizla off me, not quite clocking I am the paedophile rumoured to be interfering with a rock star, and disappear.

He calls - he can’t find me! I’m next to the path, near the busker. I find it hard to explain, then I see him, like a mirage, right in front of me. I hear him in my ear. A sensory delight. Double jeopardy. He sits.

And, would you predict it, yet more mundane chat. Oh god.

I’d reduced my speech in my head to something like this:

‘I want to be your friend. I believe in you. But I can’t see you, because if I do, I need to be with you physically.’

Rubbish, but hopefully to some point.

Instead, I blurt some flimsical waffle about the fact we haven’t pissed each other off, and I don’t want to start resenting him when I see him, or think of him as a wanker (I think his condom consumption confirms he seldom needs to wank).

His response? Oh, I’ll know about his band through facebook. Fuck-his-face book.
And that he was going to say pretty much the same thing to me. How fricking convenient. I think the truth of the matter is, whatever I said pretty much, he would have ‘said the same’. Either ‘the same’ is his standard break-up speech, or we are extremely well-aligned; in which case, where are my oats?

And that’s about it. Mundane waffle recommences. Ninners from my party suddenly appears, half cut. Time for more party gossip. Unaware that she is witnessing the most ineffectual break-up of the decade, she says how great the party was. I asked if I kissed her.

‘yes, but no tongues’.

Oh, I explain. I kissed someone I shouldn’t have but have no idea who……

‘Kate’.

Shit! She wasn’t even on my list! Well at least SOMEBODY’s giving me some answers.

A decidedly dodgy hare Krishna in his garb drags a poor young boy behind him droning. My attempts to lure them over are thwarted.

And the boy saunters off to work, his gangly legs and horse-like gait already like silhouettes of memories.

He turns: ‘We should do open mic soon’.

Erm, yes, give me a few days to write some bitter and twisted songs and I’d love to join you.

I CAN’T SEE YOU AGAIN BECAUSE I NEED TO FUCK YOU. What part of this doesn’t he understand? Oh, all of it, because I might just have forgotten to say any of it.

Kickboxing saves me from another half bottle of whisky. And the adrenalin produces some pretty interesting hormonal takes on the relationship. Streak of piss, bit like a girl, never gave me anything anyway. Hasn’t left much inside me. Oh, come inside me. That’s the gist.

He only talks about himself. He’s shit with his emotions and communicating them. He’s juvenile. He’s incapable of having a relationship. He can barely feed himself.

Well that makes two of us – bingo?!!

Delete. Erase. Deny. Fuck my ex. Write. Become religious. Eat chips.
Wank.

The telly tells me to smear Philadelphia on everything and I’ll suddenly have a sickeningly sweet relationship with a mature, airbrushed, plastic man.

George Harrison sings ‘my sweet lord’ to me, and as I seriously think about going to a church to redeem myself, the speakers blow.

Still not in god’s good books then……as my sister kindly pointed out in last years’ birthday card. Was it ‘the anal sex song’ that did it I wonder, or the new tune I’m penning: ‘Jesus, come inside me’? I wonder……

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0AUHWdTT9M