I seriously thought I was in the clear after last weekend. I left AF’s at 11, after some half decent morning sex, once again initiated by me, and headed back to London town for Twinkle’s birthday. After that, a whole Sunday, Monday and Tuesday passed and I figured I was in the clear. I figured it must be mutual, that he must have realised that whatever passion there had once been between us, was now well and truly fizzled, because no one in their right mind would have thought that Friday night slash Saturday morning had been a success.
I’ll admit, I was hoping we could make it to the end of the week with no contact, and I could then be the one to be the bigger person, to send the ‘so, clearly we’re both on the same page here’ text or email, but no. The bastard had to go and be a decent human being, and come Wednesday, he texted.
‘Hey you.’ Fuck. How does that pronoun manage to strike fear into my very heart? It’s a cleverly disguised term of endearment. Shit. ‘How’s life in theatreland?’
And so, I freak out for about half an hour. And then, theatreland does actually get quite hectic, so I have an excuse, and I don’t think about it again until I stumble through the door at midnight, and rather sensibly decide not to text back while hammered.
The next morning, I had to reply. I was being a total bitch otherwise. ‘Keep it breezy’, everyone had advised me, so I tried my damnedest.
‘Hey – theatreland’s a bit mental actually, sorry for the epic reply fail. Hope muso land is good x’
No questions. No questions.
Then a reply – bugger bugger bugger.
‘That’s okay, muso land gets like that sometimes too. Hope you’re having a great day.’
Oh, oh, oh. I am a bad person. I am a cold hearted bitch. In reality, if we’re honest, we all know this was doomed from the start. I declared my interest in this man, and he basically rejected me. Then I told him a few home truths and ignored him for a week, and he came crawling back. Against my better judgement, I gave it a second chance because otherwise I’d ‘always wonder what would have happened’, and then followed a series of time wasting non-dates, where conversation has been forced and even sex has become a bit awkward because it’s damn difficult to go from casual to not-so-casual and still maintain a bit of spontaneous passion between the sheets apparently.
Now, I’m in a bit of a bind. It was me who wanted this, in theory. But in my defence, I was kind of hoping ‘this’ would turn out to be some kind of passionate intoxicating romance, once we got past the elephant in the room and talked about our feelings and shit. Well, it didn’t. It isn’t. And I’ve spent a significant amount of hours on it. Frankly I just don’t have that many free hours, and so now that I’ve figured out that it’s not what I want, I’m loathe to spend any more on it.
And now here lies the problem. He is not just down the road, or even in another part of London. He’s in Brighton. After my last rather unsuccessful waste of an open return, I’m not particularly inclined to go all the way to Brighton just to endure another non-date and then have ‘that’ conversation at the end of it.
If I invite him here, it insinuates that he would be staying, which would be really awkward, and to drag him all the way to London just to dump his ass seems a bit cruel.
And so that, dear readers, is my conundrum. After all this shit, it appears to have fizzled. Yet it’s been such a damp squib from the get go, it looks like AF hasn’t even noticed a difference.
What the fuck do I do now??