Love Game

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CC Image courtesy of Not enough megapixels on Flickr(Continued from Something New)

‘How did you leave it?’ Beatrice says, over cornbread and poached eggs the next day. ‘Was it awkward?’

‘Oh,’ I screw up my face, ‘we hugged and he said ‘see you very shortly’ but with an infinitesimal hesitation between ‘you’ and ‘very’ which makes me think I won’t be seeing him again… ever!’

‘How do you feel about it?’

‘Oh… I mean, in my gut I probably know we’re not the best fit, but he’s really hot!’ I laugh. ‘I dunno, I’d like to go on a date with him just to see but it probably won’t happen.’


Partly because he’s really hot, and partly because Sarah assures me he’s not a douche, I drop Olly a line. Tennis had come up in conversation so I offer myself up as an opponent.


Ryan shakes his head.

‘I know, I know!’ I say. ‘I’m not sure what I was thinking. I guess… I didn’t think I’d be hearing back from him so it didn’t matter!’

I laugh; Ryan groans.

‘I’m going to have to find my tennis racket, and buy some tracksuit bottoms…’

Of the pairs that I own, one has a hole in the crotch and the others stop just north of my ankles – not a good look.

‘Also,’ I scratch my head, ‘my hearing’s not very good at the moment – I think it’s my cold – so I won’t be able to hear anything he’s saying from the other end of the court!’

Which is when Ryan says it’s like something out of Miranda.

I laugh. ‘I know.’

I turn back to my computer, thinking at least my breasts don’t clap.

CC Image courtesy of jovike on Flickr

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Mr. Chips: Part II

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(Continued from Mr. Chips: Part I)CC Image courtesy of the green gables on Flickr

We’ve had probably two conversations over the course of the three-year period I’ve been living in my flat, excluding the sporadic texts he sends asking if he can use our parking space.

The first was walking between the electric gate and his front door, when he attempted to persuade me to attend the upcoming street party. The sociopath-recluse in me wanted nothing to do with it, but after three different neighbours took it upon themselves to ‘check’ I was going, I didn’t feel like I had a choice. The second conversation took place at the party itself. I can’t remember the details but I do remember him saying something a bit catty about the neighbours who hadn’t put in an appearance. I defended them on the grounds they might have other plans, or be tired – either way, weekends are precious, and it wasn’t for us to judge them. That speech, uncharacteristic on my part, must have gone down a treat.

I also remember being a bit dazzled by him. He could talk to anyone, which I find incredibly attractive, and seemed genuinely interested in what they had to say, which is rare. And because I was dazzled I put him in the category of ‘couldn’t possibly be interested’.


I smile. ‘Hey!’

I think I know his name, but I’m not 100% sure.

He asks where I’ve been, offers me a chip.

‘Is it organic?’ I say with a grin.

‘Organic, Fairtrade, you name it….’

We joke all the way to his door, and over the threshold.

CC Image courtesy of silentinfinite on Flickr

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The Morning After

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Sunday, midday.CC Image courtesy of torbakhopper HE DEAD on Flickr
Eyes open. Half-open. Eleven hours. Bliss. Phone flashing on the floor. Yawn. Boring. Wonder what it will be. Get up, go to bathroom. Come back, pick up phone, flop down onto bed, swipe screen. Stare. Stare some more. Laugh. Power up computer, new tab, a fragment of a URL… Yes. It’s there, it’s real. More staring. What does it mean? What should I do? Nothing, obviously, but what does it mean? And he must have done it, what… [counts hours on fingers] he was probably drunk. He’s probably regretting it now, would probably undo it if he could but he knows it would hurt me. It doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean anything, but I feel so wildly, deliriously happy. I feel like skipping, and do, downstairs, to fix breakfast. It’s a gloriously sunny day and the light fills the kitchen. The cafetière is still half full from the night before – perfect. Everything’s perfect now. I can do anything – anything.

It doesn’t mean anything.


As she takes the picture I think of you. Will you see it? Will you care? Will you feel… anything? Regret? Disinterest? Will you…


We flash grins.

You should put more photos up, you said to me once, to feed me. And then you grinned, cheeky, a tad wolfish. And I felt like prey or dinner or something.

Or something. That was one of your catchphrases.

Something… anything.

It doesn’t mean anything.

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Keeping Time

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CC Image courtesy of machernucha on FlickrTwo sat down

For dinner at eight

Knowing the table might turn

At nine thirty.


Half past ten

I checked my watch,


Not believing what I saw.

Is it just me,

You said,

Or does it feel like we’ve only been here an hour or so?

I smile

At my watch face

Feeling happy-sad

That time has slipped away.


It isn’t just you.

CC Image courtesy of Susanne Davidson on Flickr

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Brilliant Cut

Brilliant Cut

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There are too many brilliant moments.CC Image courtesy of 427 on Flickr

Like when we’re caught making out on the fire escape of the club.

Joined on a bench at three in the morning, by a homeless guy with a gammy leg.

Advised by a policeman not to leave our stuff, which consists of two bags of crisps and a clutch bag, on the wall – against which we’re making out (you might spot a theme here).

VP suggesting we find a side street in which to make out, before salt and vinegar and sweet chilli and sour cream call a halt to the whole jolly business.  Which they don’t.

The moment when the bus rolls away, I look to my left, and our eyes meet.


‘Home OK?’

‘Not far off!’

I don’t tell him I’m walking the last forty minutes.  Not walking – dancing.

Falling asleep to the sound of birdsong.

Daydreaming in the park the next day, feeling my face grow hot in the sun, remembering what he said about my pale complexion.

His name appearing on the screen of my phone as I prepare dinner.

CC Image courtesy of johnnytakespictures on Flickr


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