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A love story (WIP)

WIP = Work in progress.  I will come back to this and fettle it and continue it and give it direction. For now it’s here to remind me to do so.

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It wasn’t a yes, it wasn’t a no. To describe it accurately would be to call it a murble. Not a whole murmur, not a complete gurgle, an unhappy marriage of involuntary sounds that was unnatural as it was unhelpful.

Here I was, down on one knee, an entire restaurant (well, five diners, two waiters and a novelty lobster) staring at us, and all she could manage was a murble.

Racing through my mind in that moment was a News 24 midday bulletin of speculation. Is she silently choking on a chicken nugget and unable to reply? Is she so lost in emotion that she can’t find words to even begin to describe her undeniable never-ending love for me? Is it that she started a lesbian affair with an Avon representative seven months ago and was actually planning on breaking up with me somewhere in between finishing dessert and eating the complimentary chocolate mint?

Of course, these were just the crazed thoughts of a man bearing his soul to the women of his dreams. Surely, I needn’t worry.

I don’t think there’s a need to go into complete detail on what happened next, but suffice to say I left the restaurant alone, the receipt had a 20% “traumatic and humiliating experience” deduction (so thoughtful of them to itemise it) and the next morning I emptied every Avon branded toiletry I could find into a black bag – two black bags in fact (I really should have twigged).

I wasn’t going to dwell though. After purging my bathroom entirely of her influence, I ran myself a nice warm, unscented bath, washed my hair with Fairy liquid and was ready to face the day.

‘First day of the rest of my life’ to do list:

1) Buy Head & Shoulders
2) Investigate H.Samuel returns policy
3) Get back in the game!

1 was easy – though just for the record, when faced with a grown man buying anti-dandruff shampoo and crying; “Have you considered the L’Oreal Kids no-more-tears range?” is not an appropriate question to ask.

Number 2, was easily achievable, though I did chicken out of complete honesty, and I ended up telling the manager of the jewellers that my stunning and non-lesbian wife-to-be merely wanted to pick the ring herself. A lie that I regretted almost immediately.

With £899 of H Samuel store credit in my wallet, I had the rest of the day to get back out there. Yes we’d only just broken up, yes it was a little bit soon, but I was going to show her that I was just as capable of moving on as she was.

..Maybe I could give her cousin a call, she’d been very flirtatious at that family get-together I got dragged to, and she never stopped sending postcards back when she emigrated to.. ah. Maybe not.

Perhaps I could really show her, a perfect mirror image of lustful behaviour. Yeah! I could strike up something with the Kleen-eze man.

Perhaps I needed to think this through a little bit more.

I should just go out. On my own. Cruise around the bars. I was a young, attractive, sexy, always in demand kind of guy. A guy like that would have no problem finding a lucky lady to go home with.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t a guy like that. To be entirely accurate, what I meant to say was “I was a young, attractive, sexy, always in demand kind of guy, once.” Not now. Now I was middle aged, forgettable, and worked in biscuit factory.

Filed under:Stories

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