On the pull like a plastic gangster

Picture this – My partner and myself are just stepping out of our local supermarket with the evenings to-and-fro ideal dinner ingredients, bags in the basket of the city bikes, just about to peddle off home when a couple of plastic gangsters walk past. One of them spots my partner as she’s positioning her sunglasses, ready to peddle. Suddenly, his slumped hooded head, foot dragging, intimidating stare characteristics all changed. The transformation happened in a blink of an eye. He stopped in his tracks, and everyone else’s tracks I might add, his pigeon chest was puffed out and became more apparent through (what could have been) his Kappa plastic coated jacket. His facial expression went from one of intimidation to what could have been uncomfort? His chin held high, sucking the inside of his cheek like he was practising his finale at a local parks gurning competition. There could have even been a grunt thrown in there as well, but I couldn’t hear it over my chuckling. First thing to remember from this situation, people. don’t laugh at plastic gangsters, they don’t like it. Anyway, within a split second, he had become what I can only describe as a infantile testosterone filled chimp with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on my partner. As he stood there, working on his best ‘come to bed/I’m not sure if I’ve shit myself’ eyes, a kind of pouty-gurn-like facial expression, an arched back so that his groin was at the forefront of his existence. To him, he looked like he had game. To all the passers by, he looked like he was having a stroke, but no one wanted to ask if he was okay just in case it was a scam and would end up with their wallet suddenly missing. After all the effort he had made for her, to look like someone had placed a cattle prod up his sheriffs badge, after all that . . She hadn’t even noticed this whole transformation happening in front of our eyes. Whilst cycling, she was intrigued as to why I was giggling to myself, so I explained all on our peddle home.
Lesson to be learnt by this, if you think you have game, that probably means you haven’t!! It’s been a few years since the caveman pulling technique worked, I’m not sure the opposite sex are keen on being dragged anywhere by their hair anymore. If you want to catch someone’s attention, talk to them. Don’t stand there trying your best rejected boy band pose, it doesn’t work, you must have seen Zoolander, right?

The Grand Misconception.

Ladies, there is, and probably always will be an unwritten rule – a man never chooses a woman, he can only show you that his interest and availability is there, and as much as most of us men would hate to admit it, the decision generally falls onto your lap. But with that, that doesn’t mean that the effort should only lay claim to the male. We all know that the instruction manual for the opposite sex will never be published in our lifetime, if I took a guess, the author is probably battling their sixth divorce and feeling quite like a fraud.
There is a grand misconception that us men do not discuss our likes, wants, and dislikes between each other, well, we do. Whether it’s in the gym changing room, the pub, or even a chance meeting in the magazine aisle in Tesco. We talk about you. From the women that have crossed our path, or the ones that are yet to do so. I’m not talking about the childlike ‘I’d do her!’ comment from the prepubescent jock, I mean the conversations that happen between like minded, early thirty somethings that have slayed their man mountain ego through their twenties and have come out the other side as a gent.
I thought I’d take this opportunity to give you a heads up, I’m not taking sides, I’m not selling out, just giving you something to think about.

We’re not as shallow as you think we are. Bold statement, I know. Nothing ever just comes down to looks. Yes, the way you look will always be our first impression, but if we’ve made that effort to open a conversation with you, that means we want to know who you are. Please don’t ever think that the way you look on that particular evening holds precedence over confidence and the ability to hold a good conversation. It’s always nice to have someone attractive on your arm but if your social skills are as strong as a chocolate teapot . . you’ll only ever be an attractive someone on the arm, nothing more. We want to be able to take you to a friend’s wedding and be in sound mind that if we nip to the mens room, or the bar, we don’t have to rush back to our ‘rabbit in headlights’ plus one.
If we’re dating you, amongst other things, we’re attracted to the way you look, so easy on the make up please, love. We all love a woman who takes care of her appearance, but there is a thick line between looking good, and looking like Boy George, yet you sometimes still try to cross it. Waking up next to your natural self, shows that you are confident around us, your confidence gives us confidence. . . . We want to get to know all of you, and we won’t judge. Please don’t misconstrue the point I’m trying to make, I’m not saying don’t wear any make up, as I said before, we all love a woman who takes care of her appearance. I’m saying, the less make up, the better. And don’t be coy about us seeing you without.
A high majority of us men find women that train attractive, whether you’re the woman in the gym on the cross trainer in the morning, or out pounding the pavement at night. Yes, you might be all red faced and sweaty, to us, we see the confidence, the discipline, the motivation to get up and make that personal effort to better yourself, or to keep in shape. This shows us that you are willing to go out and put effort behind making a difference, and while having that attitude with training, in most cases means that you also have that attitude with all aspects of your life. Next time he asks you to train together, run together, go to a class together, don’t over think it. Just do it. He’s not going to think about your level of fitness, whether you look red and out of breath. He just wants to share that motivation with you.
If you’re on a night out with the girls, on a work lunch, or just popping to the shops, and you see someone who interests you, don’t wait for them to come and chat you up, act on it. There’s a chance they haven’t spotted you so don’t automatically think they’re not interested. That confidence will speak volumes. We are the same as you, we all fear rejection, we all have our own insecurities, and because of this we all have missed opportunities. The fact that you have approached us is attractive in itself. The idea that a woman should never approach a man is outdated. Also, if you are approached by someone and you’re not interested, don’t be a dick about it. Just think of the courage that person has had to build just to come over and talk. Put yourself in their shoes. Being polite costs you nothing.

Above all, just be yourself. You don’t want someone to fall for the person you’re trying to be. We’re pretty simple beings, be honest, be open, and if you have any sense . . never sleep on an argument, a man full of doubts is a dangerous man.

Strokes of a Paintbrush. .

Her hand gently traced the muscles of his back as they lay there entwined, her face buried into his shoulder, she gently laced his neck with her lips, working her way around the lower line of his beard, she had grown quite fond of the feeling of his beard on her skin, like strokes of a paintbrush. They both lay silently, knowing that any one word could end this embrace, clouded by the thought that they both shouldn’t be where they are, but that made it more appealing, they had started something they couldn’t end. The attraction bore deep in them both.
His eyes outlining the intricate details of the tattoos that coloured her skin, stroking the line work on her arm, making sure he didn’t colour outside the lines. Her naked torso pulled him in closer, nuzzling in for warmth and attention, she started to work her fingers through the hair on the back of his head, gently tugging, the one thing she knew would get her the attention she craved. Her nails slowly leaving lines on the skin of his side, a remnant of where she had been, and where she would return. Pulling her foot up against the bottom of his, a way of pulling him in closer, close enough to compliment the way she felt. Craning her neck, she reached up and gently nibbled his lower lip. He pulled her small frame onto his. As she perched on top of him, he lined her spine with his fingers to make her back arch and her skin prickle. Reaching up and tugged on the back of her hair, pulling her back down to his level, she dug her nails into his tattooed chest, pushing back to feel engrossed in that moment of pain as she let out a little moan. . . .

. . . . The alarm broke the silence in the room, the moment was extinguished as he opened his eyes, only to once again stare at the emptiness of the pillow beside him, a reminder that he was still alone.

Am I Manly Enough?

Am I manly enough? This question has been on my mind in recent months, in this modern day, what falls under the category of a manly man? And does it really matter?

I was born in the early 80’s, experienced many things I shouldn’t have in the 90’s, when television, rock music, and drugs were better, not forgetting, back then, a man was manly.
From an early age, I had never been interested in tinkering around with an engine, building things just to destroy them once finished. I never had the aggressive devil may care attitude. I was always more worried about the people around me, kept myself to myself, I had no intention of being the toughest person in the room, I still don’t. I like to think of myself as a modern gentleman, which I’m quite happy with, but does this cause me to be less manly? Is the definition of a manly man becoming extinct?

Growing up side by side with my brother, who in my eyes is a manly man, a mechanic by trade, married with four beautiful children. Nothing seems to phase him, from one issue to another, I’ve only ever seen anger, I can’t actually think of a time I’ve seen him worried or scared, in the 32 years I’ve been blessed to know him, I’ve only seen him cry once. Everything about him is manly, his posture, the way he communicates, his appearance.
Where as I’m on the other end of the scale, I’m the creative type, the thinker. I’m in touch with my emotions, but don’t let this deceive you into thinking that I’m the kind of person who will cry at the end of an Eastenders Christmas special. When I say I’m in touch with my emotions, I mean that I have no problem feeling worried, loved, fear, or sadness. I don’t always express it well, but I will sometimes let that emotion engulf my existence for a while rather than sweep it under the carpet for a rainy day.
I take care in my appearance, I would rather think about what I’m going to wear before I get dressed, rather than just throw on the nearest t-shirt after sniffing the armpits. I use skin products, I moisturise, exfoliate, because I believe the older I get, I should look after my skin. I have no issue with going clothes shopping, whether for myself or with a girlfriend, I’m completely comfortable in that environment due to it being part of my profession. Having quite a few female friends means that I find myself in a lot of female company, which in turn gives me confidence around women. I don’t have aggressive mannerisms, and I’m comfortable with that, but I’m not in fear of being aggressive if I need to. I find beauty in the simple things around me rather than be oblivious to them but that comes with having a creative mind.

Does a woman prefer a manly man, or a modern gentleman? Do women occasionally want to see the emotional side to their partner? And does it lead to more trust or less attraction?

I’m not your average manly man, but does this make me any less of a man, or does it just mean I’m a modern gentleman?

In Bloom

As his heart started to bloom, he was always fond of her company. she sat opposite him, across the pub garden table. Her smile paving his next thought, enticing him down the old dusty road of love. Her sunglasses hindering his ability to view her true intentions. he couldn’t read her, but he could feel her, under his skin, gnawing at his bones. She will probably chew him up and spit him out, he was sure of this. But this didn’t change the rhythm in his chest, the bloom of his heart.
The day was warming up, the rays of sunshine curved around her form, as if they were in fear of disturbing such beauty. Like the sun, she became an eyesore if you were to stare for long. Her imperfections complimented her radiance. She started to laugh, a laugh that held his attention yet also caused him to want to drift off, grab the sound by the tail and let it drag him into the future, a sound he wanted in his life.
She is everything that he had never looked for before, an unlikely surprise, a pleasant outcome to being proved wrong, wrong for all these years while looking in the other direction.
He wasn’t looking forward to her departure, the goodbyes. He was comfortable where he sat, he had all he needed, but the goodbyes were inevitable. whether it was for a day, a week, or even months. He embraced these moments with her, he longed for them. He felt encased in the now, the moments where she sat opposite him, smiled, laughed, and whipped his life out from under his feet. He was punch drunk, his heart in full bloom. He didn’t need to say goodbye just yet.

To Whom it May Concern

To whom it may concern,

To gain, to love, to change, and to lose,
It’s what I do.

I crave your attention to cure my loneliness,
to fill the gaping hole that resides in my chest,
a decision made on impulse,
rather than a future to invest,
a hand to hold, but I don’t love you,
I shrug and confess.

I become tired of being grounded,
so I unwrap myself from your arms,
saying things that pierce your skin,
punch drunk from your angry palms,
selfish greed floats to the surface,
swallowing my good intentions and charms.

I will hurt you, its nothing personal,
to crave a love, It’s not intentional,
to gain, to love, to change, and to lose,
It’s what I do.

A restlessness that will always prevail,
love that mimics the weather,
I smiled, and nodded along,
but it was only you who said forever,
I hold my head high as I bleed from the inside,
when did together really mean together?

The grass will never be greener,
on the other side it’s just the same,
it starts with a similar breathtaking feeling,
but it just ends as a different face and name,
I’m sorry to cause confusion,
but I’m still glad you came.

I will hurt you, its nothing personal,
to crave a love, It’s not intentional,
to gain, to love, to change, and to lose,
It’s what I do.

I’m sorry, its nothing personal,
I did crave your love, but not any more
to gain, to love, to change, and to lose,
It’s what I do.

If She’s Sober

I wonder if she’s sober,
Out there, strolling under the clouds,
I wonder if she’s sober.

A time once forgotten, a time we once spent,
my silent muse, inspiring,
a conscience effort to create,
yet you destroy the canvas,
only happy to be high,
as you walk away, again.

I wonder if she’s sober,
Out there, strolling under the clouds,
I wonder if she’s out there,
Once my muse, but too many times my recluse,
I wonder if she’s sober.

Strolling in and out of existence,
not just mine, but your own,
glazed eyes, hazy gateway,
my beautiful muse,
with a sweeping tail of destruction,
as you walk away, again.

I wonder if she’s sober,
Out there, strolling under the clouds,
I wonder if she’s sober.

You’re missed, but then you’re forgotten,
lost to your own addictions,
stumbling future, uneasy footing,
a broken muse,
an inspiration to no one,
as you walk away, again

I wonder if she’s sober,
Out there, strolling under the clouds,
I wonder if she’s out there,
Once my muse, but too many times my recluse,
I wonder if she’s sober.

I wonder if she’s sober,
Out there, strolling under the clouds,
I wonder if she’s sober,
I wonder if she’s sober.

Lies for Lust

The twinkling of lights set sparks at the back of his eyes, the restaurant was bright and of bad taste. He waited, alone, full of thought. The evening’s entertainment would arrive shortly, he always liked to be early, to get a drink, to make sure the coast was clear. In many eyes, what he was doing, waiting for, was a bad thing. If the people close to him knew about this part of his life, he shuddered to think of the outcome.
His surroundings became louder as more people piled into the building, it was a Monday night and the place was heaving. On an average Monday night he was sure it would be quieter, enough to hear the chef whistle. It was a week before Christmas, the cheers of Christmas parties surrounding him, drunk middle-aged women with multi coloured party hats from cheap crackers, the office idiot trying his chances with the new receptionist.
Was this a great idea to meet here? He thought to himself, wherever they met, he always panicked to think that someone knew his wife, had seen a picture of him on her desk at work. The more people in the room, the greater the odds he thought.
A crack of laughter pulled him out of thought, he glared at the women across the room, wondered if this was how his wife acted at a Christmas party. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve known someone, you never truly know them, he was walking proof. He had been married for twelve years, he loved his wife, the mother of his children, but she just didn’t quench his sexual thirst any more. She thought he was at a meeting, his usual weekly meeting. The ‘do not disturb’ part of his diary.
Since they had married the sex went downhill, his wife never moved from missionary position, hadn’t performed oral in years. It had become a task rather than a passion. Before children, before their marriage, she fucked like a Motley Crüe groupie, but that was years ago, things had changed. He used to speed home from work, cancel meetings, and rush deadlines, just to get back to her. He used to crave the feeling of her in his palms, the smell of her on his skin, her hair stroking his face as she rode above. The passion that once cocooned them, uncontrollable lust, he’d drop anything to pick her up, physically and mentally.
A sudden pang of sadness over took his thoughts, how their good times had fizzled out, they had lost their way, how they had changed. His mind often argued the case in whether over time they had grown apart, or if they were never meant to grow together in the first place.
He took another mouthful of his beer, staring at the office parties when he wasn’t glancing at his watch. This weekly secret made him feel young again, knowing he’d wake tomorrow full of thought about the next time. He had found a release for his lust, knowing that he’d never feel that way again about his wife. He sometimes wondered, if his wife knew, would she be happy for him because once again he had found the passion they once lost? He knew full well that the knowledge of his cheating would emotionally kill her, he loved her, he couldn’t put her through that, but he couldn’t stop.
“Hey” came a voice next to him
“Oh hey, I didn’t see you come in. Did you want to stay for a drink?” he replied
“Sorry I’m late, traffic’s awful. You look full of thought, you ok?”
“Just thinking of you” he replied smiling, waving to get the waitress over to their table.
He was excited, energy coursing through his body. Staring at his date, knowing he didn’t want to be anywhere else but here. He knew that the passion that lay dormant inside him had returned, he was happy, happy to be her with him.
“What drinks would you like, gentlemen?” said the waitress as she came to the table.

Two’s a relationship but this threesome was cheating . .

Receiving a thud of realisation should be a life changing moment, lying on a mattress with two naked women is never a good time for a life changing moment unless it’s your first threesome.

‘Now this shit is going to change my life’ he thought to himself.

Staring up at a ceiling he didn’t recognise. His mind replaying intimate moments shared with his girlfriend. The room was so quiet he could just make out his girlfriends voice in his head, ‘I love you’ she whispered.  He could hear her but the truth was she didn’t actually know where he was right now, she never knew because she trusted him. A trust that’s wasted and never mentioned. He missed her, for the first time in months he missed her.

“I need to get out of here” he pulled the sheets from his body which in turn uncovered the two women.

Hours ago he couldn’t wait to see the pair of them in their pure beauty but at that moment it just pulled his cheating ways to the surface.

“Where you going?” questioned the blonde one.

At that moment he couldn’t remember their names which made him feel worse, he must have known their names at some point because what would he have called them hours ago. Right now they weren’t on the tip of his tongue like they were before; he felt guilty which is a foreign feeling to him. An impatient thought concluded that he will name them the blonde one and the brunette one, weighing up the situation it didn’t really fucking matter and those names will have to do for now. He remembered meeting them at a hen party, it wasn’t until back at this house much later in the evening that he realised the party was actually for one of the women he went home with, which one that was soon to be wed he couldn’t quite be sure.

Picking up a woman on her hen night would be something only heard in stories and rumours from heroes of men in bars, he’d tell his friends he felt proud of this conquest but deep down he had this burning feeling which he believed to be guilt. Having never felt guilt quite like this before he was quite unsure what to do with it and hoped it would pass before long just like that of his hangover.

“I’ve got to go, I need to get home” he said while coming to terms with his surroundings.

“Are you ok?” the blonde one muttered with slight concern in her voice,

“You’re not going to tell anyone about last night are you?” stirred the brunette one.

“No, I just need my own bed” he lied.

It had now become obvious that it was the brunettes’ hen party the evening before.

He got up and soon realised he was on a mattress on the floor of a living room, looking around the room there was nothing obvious to which woman the living room belonged. No pictures of people on the bland magnolia walls, no sign of other life in the close quarters that he found himself in. Rather than ask any questions and give them the opportunity to notice ha had no fucking clue where he was he stumbled across the living room straight through the door into the kitchen. Picking up what he believed to be his packet of cigarettes from the side, they could have been any ones but no one else was there to argue their case.  Sliding one out of the packet and placing it between his lips without thought as he seemed to be in autopilot whilst he planned an escape route. The kitchen opened up to the right, a work surface the shape of a horse shoe shadowed by head height cupboards that only took a break for the window above the sink. Next to him a breakfast bar that was built onto the work surface which housed stools, he was glad he noticed this before he moved or he would have stubbed his toe on a hidden stool leg. He stood by the French doors on the left side of the kitchen in his boxers with an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth; he could see the disgust look on his girlfriends face if she were ever to see a picture of him now. The beautiful morning sun was shining through the window onto his feet, he loved his girlfriend and he knew he needed to make more of an effort in telling her. Confused by this sudden overwhelming guilt he wasn’t quite sure what to do next; he fumbled between empty beer bottles and cigarette packets on the breakfast table for a lighter trying not to make too much noise before one of the women came to check on him. The only two things he knew for sure right now where that he had just had a threesome with a woman who’s on the path to marriage and that he needed to see his girlfriend. First things first he needed to get out of this house.

“Great . . . chalk that up as another reason to why I’m going to hell” he muttered to himself whilst shaking his head.

The smoke rolled down into his lungs like lava, the first cigarette after a night out always made him feel a little sick. A couple of minutes had passed full of thought, he dropped the end of his cigarette into a half drank can of beer because there was no ashtray in sight.

“Right . . . let’s get the fuck out of here” he said to himself as a little motivation.

He crept back into the living room; both women seemed to have fallen back asleep. To the right of the room was a small two-seater sofa in an alcove over shadowed by stairs, at the far end of the room under a window was another two-seater sofa. To the left was a fireplace and next to him was a TV unit that stretched the full length of the wall, he found it strange there were no pictures up or any other signs that life did indeed float in and out of this room. His jeans were folded over the arm of the sofa in the alcove along with his t-shirt, picking them up he made his way back into the kitchen so he could get dressed without waking the proof of his regret in the living room. Picking up the packet of cigarettes and lighter from the breakfast table he slid them into his pocket, he pulled his phone out of his other pocket and noticed he had three missed calls from the girlfriend. Panic and guilt crashed over him like a wave, ‘perhaps she knows where I am’ he thought to himself. He needed to snap out of this trance because staring at his phone wasn’t going to get him out of this house. Creeping back into the living room he couldn’t see his shoes and socks, checking by both sofas and the other side of the mattress there was no sign of them. Toying with the idea of just leaving without them he thought of one more place to check, by the front door. He headed towards the door which was next to the sofa at the base of the stairs, slowly pulling the handle down trying not to wake the women behind him it squeaked and the door opened towards him. He stepped through and turned to close the door behind him, with a bolt of shock he suddenly noticed the brunette woman was sat up staring at him. For a split second he thought about saying something but with the look on her face he chose not to and just closed the door which broke their eye contact. The front door was next to him in this crowded little box room filled with coats and shoes; he saw his shoes straight away but no socks. ‘Fuck this’ he thought as he made the decision to leave the socks behind whilst slipping his shoes on. Pulling the latch down on the lock of the front door it swung open and the warm breeze soaked into his lungs and through his hair, first problem done.

He walked down the road for a couple of minutes before ringing a taxi; he didn’t think it was wise to wait outside the house he had just escaped from. Pulling his phone from his pocket he stared at the screen thinking what he was going to say, he dialled her number.

“Hey . . . where are you? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.” She said when she answered.

“Hey . . . I’m sorry. I got a little drunk last night and crashed with a mate.”

“I’ve been worried about you, are you ok?” she said sounding concerned.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. I’ll be home soon; I’m just waiting for a taxi.”

“Ok, I’ll stay in bed and wait for you. I love you” she said with a giggle.

“I love you too” he replied, he really did.

She trusted him and always would, every time he knew he never deserved her.

Sitting on a wall waiting for his taxi he pulled a cigarette from the packet, put it in his mouth. He lit it and lent back, his guilt floated away with the smoke as he sat there and started to laugh to himself.

‘That was a close one’ he thought.

Pain and Pride

“I do love you, but. . . .” she stuttered,

That’s how the conversation started in the corner of the coffee shop, the modern chrome and pine interior started to close around him, strangling him with invisible ties.

“But what?” he replied choking on the lump in his throat.

“I’ve fallen for someone else . . . I’m sorry” she started to sob.

“What . . . ?” he stared at her trying to digest what was just said.

She pulled her hands from the table and placed them on her lap and her eyes followed.

“That’s all you’re going to say?” he said through his gritted teeth raising his hands in the air.

Everything in the room had disappeared; all he could see was her. She looked uncomfortable, probably because he was making a scene in a public place.

“What the fuck are you crying for?” he said whilst failing to hold back his frustration.

“God . . . You can be a real dick sometimes you know that?” she spat with venom.

The room was spinning; he felt the heat prickle up his face.

“I’m better than this” he lied whilst standing up.

Feeling punch drunk he headed for the door, his jaw feeling stiff and his eyes feeling as they could roll into the top of his head. The cold air slapped him in the face as he opened the door, he looked back at the table because he still cared but the girl sitting there wasn’t the one he loved.

His paranoia started to play games; everyone around him in the street was looking and laughing at him. His vision blurred and his mouth dry, his senses felt heightened but reluctant to work. Feeling as if he had left all of his pride at the table he started to cry, a crushing cry that should never be seen by a dry eye.

 

Days passed, weeks had passed. Days and weeks filled with self loathing, self-pity, self-pride and then the strength to build new foundations. Days and weeks of text messages written but never sent, over the weeks the feeling to communicate slowly starting to subside. The pictures became unworthy of their frames, the memories becoming lost behind the shadows of the new. She was never forgotten she just became unimportant, that’s what time does.

 

‘I miss you x’ . . . . He couldn’t actually remember the last time he had seen her name on his iPhone. For weeks he had prayed, wished and cried to receive a message from her but now he hated her name, he hated the thought of her thinking of him but he couldn’t help but wonder how she is, what she wants.

‘What do you want?’ he replied a couple of days later. He never understood why people play games by text, not replying for two days etc but in this occasion she could wait.

‘Can I be honest with you x?’ her reply causing him frustration.

‘What do you want?’ he replied with hope that he’ll get a straight answer this time.

‘Meet me in our coffee shop at 5pm, I hope your curiosity will steer you x’ as much as he hated the thought of seeing her, this invite made his heart jump.

 

Stepping over the threshold of the coffee shop he realised that he hadn’t stepped foot in since they had parted ways, the place looked different, it looked old and just a memory. On a summers day the interior felt over cast, still built of pine and chrome but looked worn and rustic which surely wasn’t what they were going for. As much as he hated the thought of caring about her, he showed up and that must have said something. She was sat in the corner toying with her cup with both hands; she looked up as the door closed and gave a nervous wired smile. She looked tired, worn and unloved. The deep dark rings under her eyes told tales of the lack of sleep, a substantial weight loss seen in her face and chest.

“Hi, you look good” she said as he made his way over to the table. To repay the compliment would have been polite but he didn’t want to lie, she looked unwell.

“Hi” he said as he took a seat opposite her.

“I’m glad you came” she said with a cracked smile, it wasn’t the smile he used to love.

“So . . . what’s up?”  He half heartedly asked,

“I’ve missed you, I wanted to see you”

He sat and stared at her, not sure what to think or feel. Part of him wanted to reach across the table and touch her hand, see if she still felt like the women he once loved.

“I thought you’d be pleased to see me?” she said to break the silence.

“What do you want?” he replied. Images of holding her, kissing her again in his head swirling with mixed emotions.

“I just thought we could spend some time together?” She reached across the table for his hand.

“Why am I here?” not sure whether that question was better directed at her or himself whilst he pulled his hand away from hers.

She started to sob, closing her body language to protect the weak spots. He wanted to lean forward to hold her and tell her that things will work, they’ll be ok but he sat back in his chair with his arms crossed. He still loved her; he still pined for her touch. He knew that being with her would make him happy again, the happy that he enjoyed and the happy that he hadn’t felt for a while. He missed that feeling, he missed her. He could feel his armour slip, his pride seep away like a sand castle in the wind, grain by grain she had him. But that’s when she said it . . .

“He cheated on me” the muffled voice came from behind the hands covering her face.

“What . . . what did you just say?” he hoped his ears deceived him.

“He cheated on me; I’ve made such a mistake. I know you would have never done that to me, you loved me.” She sobbed whilst removing her hands to try and keep eye contact.

“So wait a minute . . . he cheats on you and you think that I’ll come down here and comfort you, everything will go back to how it was?” his pride took over, he felt stupid. His anger came to the surface and she started to sob again, probably because he was making a scene in a public place.

“You always loved me no matter what” she said wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

“Right . . . I really want you to listen to what I’m going to say, I don’t want there to be any miss interpretation . . . . . Fuck you!” as he stood the sound of his chair legs dragging on the floor shattered his heart.

“Wait . . . please” she pleaded.

He stopped and turned his head to look at her over his shoulder.

“I’m pregnant” she looked defeated and tired as the words slipped from her mouth.

“I’m sorry” is all he could muster.

Feeling punch drunk he headed for the door, his jaw feeling stiff and his eyes feeling as they could roll into the top of his head. The cold air slapped him in the face as he opened the door, he looked back at the table because he still cared but the girl sitting there wasn’t the one he loved. Once again he cried a crushing cry that should never be seen by a dry eye.