We sit down to eat. MLP seems very quiet. This doesn’t worry me unduly until he suddenly goes: ‘Er.. Wendy…’ and I drop my cutlery with a resounding crash, cover my ears with my hands and say:
‘I don’t wanna hear this’ because I know - I just KNOW - what’s coming.
He never calls me Wendy. Hun, babe, but never Wendy.
‘You have to,’ he says calmly and pain like a thousand poisoned arrows stabs my heart leaching its venom into every crevice of my viscera. What a terrific appetite suppressant that is!
I lower my head unable to look at him and although I always knew this would happen, I did not know appalling it would make me feel. The word ‘revastated’ comes to mind... a bitter combination of resigned and devastated.
Why do I put myself through this? Will I never learn? Are the joyful highs really worth the crushing lows? And despite my cavalier ‘Toyboys? Huh! Love ‘em and leave ‘em!’ advice to others, I’m clearly incapable of doing this myself.
I don’t know if there was any particular moment when MLP began to go off me. It’s not a question you can ask, really, is it? Something I’d said, something I’d done, some over-demand I’d made, the way I’d looked at him as he left the last time, a taking for granted even...but when this conversation I always knew would come finally gets under way, I find myself totally unprepared for it.
We’ve been seeing each other for ten and half weeks. And every time I saw him, I never really expected to see him again. And if it’s any consolation, this time, I am right. A Pyrrhic victory in the event...
‘A girl asked me ou' on a date last week’ he begins.
‘And did you go?’ I counter.
‘Nah! It wouldn’t 've been right’ he replies.
We sit in silence as I wait for him to continue. He’s eating all the while, seemingly enjoying the infamous stuffed peppers, obviously relieved that the end he's been seeking is now in sight.
‘She’s a girl Michelle knows,’ he goes on, chewing appreciatively, cutting into his second one, the red one, with the extra cheese on top. ‘Her name’s Sarah – I’ve seen 'er dan the pub a few times. I quite like 'er. And then ‘chelle tells me she really likes me!’
What am I supposed to say? Mazeltov!
‘I’d...er...' he pauses, swallowing loudly, 'I’d like to go out with ‘er but I wouldn’t do that while I’m still seeing you. I’m not like that.’
What the mind doesn’t know the heart doesn’t grieve over. You could've got away with it, baby...if you'd been clever enough.