MLP throws himself down on the sofa and in no time at all, he’s fast asleep. What is it with men? Is this genuine tiredness or just oblivion-seeking as in: ‘If I shut my eyes, that’ll shut her up.’ I was about to have a bit of a go at him and maybe he sensed this. The ‘go’ stays in my mouth swirling around like an evil mist in a Victorian melodrama.
I lie tensely in his arms unwilling to relax against him, because the minute I do a deep sadness floods through me. I knew it would. I seriously think I am going to have to end this. There's no joy in it any more. And I can’t understand why he’s shlapped all this way, having had to borrow money for petrol, when he doesn’t even want to have sex. What the hell’s that all about?
Although I’ve booked our long weekend in Spain and we've talked about a day trip to Paris, something tells me these plans are not going to come off. All this booking in advance is just me trying to dominate the situation and secure some kind of future with him...Like the Beatles sang: 'Can't Buy Me Love...'
I am truly, madly and deeply attached to this man and my heart is breaking in credit for when he leaves me. I think it would hurt him too at this point, but he may also be relieved. I doubt he'd put up an argument.
My tension transmits itself to him and he stirs and opens his eyes. Before I can control myself, the ‘go’ escapes my gob.
‘How come you weren’t in touch with me all week?’ Damn. Damn...take it back.
‘I get really sad when I don’t hear from you…’ I go on, trying to justify myself and not blame him for an emotion I should have control over.
He pauses awhile before answering simply. ‘I’ve had other things on my mind.’
‘I know…’ I whisper and snuggle closer to him. He’s always so honest and authentic - always totally himself. I can’t argue with that.
He dozes off again and I sigh deeply. This is not designed as a criticism but obviously it is. What is the point in him being here exactly? Apart from his physical presence, I’m not getting anything out of it. I try to enjoy the proximity of him, but it only frustrates me. At midnight, I wake him up and suggest he continues sleeping in my bed.
‘You can leave early in the morning,’ I reason, but he stretches and says the traffic will be too bad then and he must go now. I get up and take the dirty ashtray and glasses into the kitchen. I hover there awhile but he doesn’t follow me. He’s putting his shoes on, gathering his belongings and getting ready to leave. My heart feels like a rock in my chest.
I go back into the living-room and stand on my footstool which makes me taller than him. I have no idea why I do this other than to give myself superiority. I feel rejected but he wraps his arms around my waist and hugs me lovingly. I jump down.
‘Speak to you tomorrow’ he says as he opens the front door, but I know full well he probably won't.
As I close the door I take a very deep breath. I make a pact with myself that every time he does not text or call, shall be used as a stepping stone away from him. I need to return to my Control Tower which has been carelessly unmanned for the past two months.
I can space these stepping stones as close together or as far apart as I choose.
In any case, every moment we spend together is now like advance mourning. I am in little doubt that my prophecy will fulfil itself. I can’t enjoy it for what it is any more. Not that I ever really did, so nothing’s changed except the depth of my feelings.
I clear up and go to into my study. I check my messages on toyboywarehouse and reply to four guys I haven’t bothered with before. I can’t really be bothered with them now, but what the hell? I forget to turn my mobile off and go to sleep.
At 03.55 I am awoken by a text. It’s Eurotrash obviously trashed:
‘God’ he writes. ‘I wish you would be next to me right now…x’
Bloody foreigner! Can’t even speak the Queen’s English - but I smile because somebody wants me, then I turn over and go back to sleep.