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September 20th 2006 02:53
Breaking up was sort of inevitable. No matter how firmly attached or how deeply you care about someone, its a huge leap to fall and to say in- love with them.
So I knew, and Taffy knew, that we probably werent going to grow old and be crazy cat lady-lesbians together.
And I knew that Taffy knew because when she was uneasy she would resort to joking blackmail- If you break up with me, Im not going to give you your birthday present in September!
I know you wont break up with me before then because you want it.
It was very pretty and I did want it, but usually it seems smart to pick emotional sanity before presents.
Taffy didnt just try and forestall the breakup, she thought deeply about the subject and predicted a range of outcomes. The one that sprung most frequently to her mind was a competition over Mr X.
Thats right.. he may have been temporarily banished from our beds, but he wasnt gone from our thoughts. And breakups, well, they tend to be messy and ugly and painful, and lead to unhealthy acts of desperation. Like seducing your exs best friend. Or, in our happy polyamorous case, running off with the third partner.
According to Taffy, there was going to be a down and dirty competition to see who could get her hands/other appendages on Mr X first.
And here we were, broken up. The tragedy had come to pass, it was time for the games to begin.
And the question before me was
did I want to play?
September 16th 2006 07:59
The next day.
I went to uni, and Taffy walked me across campus, causing a mild sensation in her purple fishnets and knee-high hooker boots. And we hugged and everything. It was totally amicable, until darkness fell and crept into our souls once again.
Its like that a lot. In the bright sunshine, you can cope with a broken heart. There are people and a whole world of bustling activity to serve as a distraction. But that night it was just the two of us and the single bed again. And someone had the brilliant idea of inviting Mr. X. For dinner, and maybe... more? In the gospel according to Taffy, nothing cures a broken heart like rebound sex with your ex's ex.
I really should have learnt to put a stop to those brilliant ideas. We all should have learnt a less from the last night we spent together. Because desperately tearful Taffy, a coldly loveless Lia and a morbid Mr. X are never a good combination.
Even that time when we were.
September 11th 2006 13:16
Breaking up is hard to do
well, except when its easy.
Taffy did come back, eventually. So she wasnt swallowed up by the night and rain like an arty movie ending. And so we kind of talked. The Talk actually. It was nice, amicable, mutual. Ok, it did hurt a little, because wed been so close, and shared those experiences and really cared about each other.
Mostly though, I felt an amazing sense of lightness. When youre in a relationship sometimes it feels like the other person is sending little tendrils inside your head. I mean, theres lots of hugging and kissing and affectionate stuff that goes on on the outside, but inside they stake out a piece too, sending little shoots into everything. Somehow even your thoughts arent all your own anymore, because theres always another person there demanding consideration and attention.
It can be fantastic, tripping along on that happy painkiller that is love and infatuation. But what I was tasting was pure mental freedom, and all I wanted to do was stretch and explore all the nice empty places inside my head. Feel totally comfortable and alone in my own skin again.
Well, not all the consideration is eradicated, even when you mutually agree its over. Especially when your recently ex-girlfriend is going to be there in your narrow single bed all night, and the next day, and the next night. Well, she might leave the bed at some point during the day, but its not a thing to count on.
So I suppose even when the breaking up is easy, its the aftermath that you have to worry about.
So it was a dark, cold rainy, claustrophobic night.
I came home exhausted. She was going back out into said unpleasantness to survey prospective houses. Naturally I was obliged to accompany her, no matter how much I wanted to just fall into bed. Maybe with coffee, if I could manage to fall without spilling anything.
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Three days, two nights. Taffy was coming to visit.
It wasnt just that it was a long time to be spending together at a stretch. She was here for a purpose. To find a non-Newcastle place to live, a place much much closer, from whence she could just pop in any moment of the day or night.
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The tears began as a trickle and ended as a flood until everything was sodden with them, and tidemarks of crystallised salt were left in rings all over my pillows.
The discomfort of the whole situation was almost funny, in a surreal sharp-edged way, but it was also becoming a serious problem. A helpful person recently defined heartbreak for me.
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I slept over with Mr. X. And I didnt tell Taffy. Not that there was sex, necessarily. But there was shared intimacy, and I didnt want to tell her. Because if I did, we would fight. And if we fought, she would cry. Either way I would end up feeling incredibly guilty.
Are tears emotional expression or emotional blackmail?
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I really hate going home. You know, the end of the evening, when mascara has smudged everywhere (well some of you know), your feet hurt, the excitement is over and its freezing outside!
Yes, its depressing. But I think there is an especial kind of depression to trying to catch the bus at 3 am. Usually its just not there. (Timetables! They lie!) And if it is there, its completely packed to the roof with people and whizzes cheerfully right past you as you shiver and clutch your elbows in an attempt to stay upright.
And if it does stop, there is vomit. Everywhere. Wet or semi-dry, leaving lingering stains and all-pervasive odour.
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Well what would you do!? We calmly decided not to bother waiting for a bus and fled like frightened rabbits in glittering shoes.
The up-shot of this minor excitement was some getting lost on dark sign-less streets and an encounter with some bearded guys who wanted to show us the way. But with an inbuilt magic homing beacon we found ourselves at last basking in the friendly footlights of Oxford St.
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Theres something about being out at night, alone, vulnerable and not in a car thats just inexpressibly different. But Ill try to express it.
A car is very much like a bubble. It is a shield, and you can tint the windows, and you can hide, and you can drive away really fast and unless you stop at traffic lights with your door unlocked or drive out into the woods and pick up backpackers, youre probably going to be ok. Well, no, driving is very dangerous. But its a totally different danger to walking down the street.
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Comment by Lia
on The Night Was For Hunting