Wednesday, 24 September 2014

Not all who wander are lost - but perhaps, right now, I am. Just a little.

Superlatively Rude
This weekend I had a meltdown. A purge, almost. It’d been brewing.

I needed it.

I went into town with a friend, a fellow dreamer who I hadn’t seen since before the summer. Together we whiled away an afternoon in a tiny Italian we discovered off Portobello Road. And Internet, we drank.

It was sort of an accident. And yet, I’ve been drinking a lot lately. An awful lot.

It was one of those perfect, unplanned days where one bottle leads to another, and we talked about every.single.last.thing. We used rudimentary Italian with the waiter who decided, with a glint in his eye, that he’d really like “English lessons” and requested my phone number to organise such an event, and as we exited a band was playing in the square opposite and Jack said, “Let’s dance!” and so we did. The moments between flinging my bag to the floor and the first roll of my hips were non-existent. The crowd cheered and applauded. We laughed, and we laughed, and we laughed, and then we left.

I came home to flowers on my doorstep. A note. Laura, no pretence or wank, just this: you’re not okay right now, and that’s okay. We’ve got your back.

I came inside and thanked the culprit, my housemate. She hugged me tight. Repeated the words of her note. And it caught me so off guard, the kindness of it, that I went into my room to lie down, on my side, curled into a ball, and I cried.

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

Friends to More to Strangers, I Guess

Superlatively Rude
I said, These weeks together – the food, the talking, the walking – it has been everything. If the rest of my life were eating pasta by your side, staring at the sea, that’d be some life.

I said, four years ago I wasn’t brave enough to tell you. Two years ago when we met again, I missed my chance. But now – I’m telling you: I love you.

He said: I want to do this properly. I want a partner, a wife. Let’s go slow. Be deliberate.

I trusted him.

*

He never tired of telling me how much he adored me. Respected me. That I was his pedestal girl, his reference point, the one whose opinion counted more than all others. And when somebody makes you feel like the most important cheerleader in their life, you want to step up to that. Play the part. Oh, you think this is supportive? I’ll show you how goddamn supportive I can be.

The river wept when Narcissus drowned, because in his eyes its own beauty was reflected.

In his eyes, I saw my best self.

Perhaps that is what I fell in love with. 

Wednesday, 20 August 2014

I Had a One-Night Stand, and It's Made Me Very Sad

“And can I get you anything else?” he asked, making me stop talking to the rest of the table long enough to look up and acknowledge him for the first time.

Oh, I thought, forgetting the rest of my sentence.

He was my favourite kind of waiter: hipster top-knot and piercings, cheeky, and engaged enough with himself to pass the time by actually being good at his job, because obviously this was just rent money before he got signed/sold his manuscript/got on the plane. 

That guy.

“Yes, actually,” I said, sitting up straighter and holding his gaze, rearranging my parts into their most seductive, flirtatious version. “You can take our photograph, if you don’t mind. And bring a generous portion of mayonnaise. But mainly the photograph.”

“As madam requests,” he replied, tongue firmly in cheek. He winked at me.

He fiddled with my iPhone and we smiled and posed and he assured us he’d taken several snaps so that we could choose the best, and then he was gone and somebody else took over looking after our table. Idly flicking through my phone before the food arrived, though, there were two extra shots before the group images: selfies of himself, tongue stuck out and all, when we weren’t paying attention. It was dumb and cute and made me laugh out loud.

I’m a sucker for a playful attitude.

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