My run of birthday luck ended abruptly yesterday, after five days of wonderfully humbling compliments, kind words and love. You see, it was another example of how things with M and I are never without complication.
We were supposed to have a date last night, it was a last minute decision (he lives in London which is over an hour on the direct train from me) but I was there for a meeting. When you take into account he’s often finishing work at 10.30pm and that the last train home is 9.44pm, it isn’t easy. Plus the last few weekends have been busy for both of us – me going to Greece, birthdays and more birthdays to celebrate this month. We’d spoken in the morning and I was confident in his “I’m still game” text. But when I probed him if he knew what time he’d roughly finish work today and he didn’t respond until 5.30pm saying he wasn’t sure, I was feeling a bit apprehensive. “What should I do?” I asked, hoping that if he knew he wouldn’t get out in time, I could go home and not waste my evening. But he was busy, so I kept myself busy looking at running shoes and searching for a present for a friend (neither search was fruitful).
The clock kept ticking… 6.48pm, 7.18pm, 7.32pm. He had been considerate at least and kept me up-to-date but the main thing was he wasn’t going to be done any time soon. Despite my navy coat and checked snood winning Autumn combination, I was getting cold… and more annoyed. Livid in fact. But could I be? I get it, he’s been there just over a month in this new job, being at work at 11pm wasn’t new for him. I knew I wouldn’t be his priority over his career. That’s what the rational part of my brain told me. But my heart was hurting. I wanted to kiss him again, feel his beard against my face and to smell him on me afterwards. And when I decided to head home, I cried in the toilets of King’s Cross as I waited for my train to pull in. He said he was sorry it didn’t work out multiple times, but it didn’t mean anything to me in that moment. I’d wasted an entire evening waiting for someone to finish work. I felt stupid. Just as I got onto my train home (slightly more composed) he told me he’d just left the office. I called him, but his complaining about the cold threw my temper. Keeping a cool head isn’t a strength of mine so I’m sure he sensed my anger in our one minute call. “Sorry it didn’t work out” he sent over WhatsApp as my train left the station. “This sums us up entirely, I genuinely don’t know what to say.” I was cold, hungry and livid. And hurt, bloody hurt by this whole thing.
Angry and with tears in my eyes, I wrote it and sent it before my brain processed the consequences: “I can’t do this any more, sorry”. He told me he understood and said that he hoped I got back safely. That was it then. 6 months of speaking to someone every day, and this was it. The end. I had questions that needed answers, and feelings for this guy, but maybe it wasn’t meant to be. I couldn’t live like this.
As I sobbed in the train station toilets (even more loudly this time) waiting for my next train, I couldn’t believe it. This really was it. But I didn’t want it to be over yet. I don’t think the events of this night were entirely his fault. “Please can I call you when I’m home?” I had an hour to think about what I wanted to say, and to calm down so I didn’t get angry with him on the phone. I thought about M the entire journey back.
Body underneath the duvet, layers on, lights out, I called M. No response. I WhatsApped him telling him I’d tried, and when it didn’t deliver after a few minutes, my mind turned to the worst: he’s on a date with the girl he really wants to be on a date with, they’re having sex, he’s out in a bar drinking. I know I was being irrational, but I didn’t know what to think any more.
But anxiety was pushed aside when I had a missed call from him, and we finally manage to catch one another. I’m a sucker for an accent, and I’ve never told him this but his makes him ten times hotter. Within a minute, I remembered how his accent makes me feel – I was gushing, putty in his hands, it mesmerises me. But it also made me remember how well we get along. We joke, we tease, we disagree, we laugh. It was the second best thing to having a date, those 40 minutes.
“What can’t you do any more, this or the train journey?” he asked, mid way through joking about Mystic Meg and different animals. He caught me off guard, and maybe that was his intention. I mumbled something, “I don’t know why, both I guess” and we brushed over it like it wasn’t true. Why? Because we were having a good time, we were getting along with all our teasing and laughter. He told me good night, sleep well, and sweet dreams. I was happy.
But was I? We hadn’t said a word about what I wanted to talk about it, there wasn’t a moment to bring it up. I didn’t have the physical contact that I wanted, that I need. I can’t just do the texting stuff any more, my emotions and feelings need physical contact. It’s the missing piece. So I have to have this conversation before we continue much further. I owe it to myself to say something. I crave it, his touch on my back, my face so close to his chest and the back of my head against his hand.