Smoothing out shit
Last weekend I had a phone call.
‘Hello Silver. How are you?’ asked a familiar, smooth voice, in the friendliest of tones.
‘Oh, I’m well. And how are you?’ I replied perkily, on autopilot, while trying to place the voice. Then I connected. It was an ex. Let’s call him Evil Ex. We continued politely, and he asked if I wanted to meet. ‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea.’ I said, staying cool, but unable to completely contain all hesitancy. ‘After all; there might still be chemistry,’ I added, knowing full well that it’s spring, I’m single and there always was an excess between us. ‘I wouldn’t wish for things to get back to how they were. We weren’t good for each other.’
‘That’s why I suggested lunch,’ he said, ‘but it’s up to you.’
‘Of course it’s up to me.’ At least he knows that. He knows he has to be contrite. He has apologised, but he knows he Fucked Up.
Part of me wanted to go; to test myself, and show just how icy cool I could be. We have overlapping friends, and I want to smooth out the angst that runs through those social encounters. Part of me thought it could be dangerous.
He proposed at time and a place, to which I very noncommittally said, ‘Perhaps: I need to think about it,’ having pretty much decided I wouldn’t go.
Over the week, my desire to tidy up the loose ends started to overcome the caution. A friend agreed; I should go. ‘After all,’ she said, ‘nothing’s going to happen. You must hate him.’
‘No, not really: it takes a lot to make me hate. And he’s apologised…and I’ve accepted it. It doesn’t put it right, but it means I should be able to interact with him,’ I tell her, adding, ‘but it still seems a little dangerous.’
‘Yer, but nothing’s going to happen.’ She knows I can be resolved. ‘Is it?’ she queries, hesitantly.
‘Well, I feel a little sorry for him - he was in a tough space. It’s no excuse, but I sort of understand.’
‘Oh; that’s different’ she said, ‘you better be careful.’
So Friday afternoon, I headed off to meet Evil Ex for tea; safe and separate from the evening. I was late. I didn’t care that I was late for him: he deserved no better. I was half hoping as I cycled there that he’d have gone. That I could say I went along, but must have got there too late. The other part of me wanted to be resolute and strong. To test myself. Not to walk away. I cycled on to Soho, and found him upstairs, framed in the window, looking fit and well, scribbling the tiniest writing imaginable, as ever.
We covered polite, catch up conversation. I asked him what he was thinking when he called. He said he wasn’t thinking. I told him I thought he’d DJed well at the last party I’d seen him at. Better than the shit he used to sit with his headphones on and play when I went round. He laughed, how rude, did he really do that?
‘Yer, you were fucking hard work,’ I told him kindly.
‘You should feel sorry for me,’ he said.
‘And why’s that?’
‘You were just visiting. I had to live with myself all the time.’ I know what he was trying to say. He’s though it, I thought. He looked into my eyes, and a ring inside my pelvis tightened. I dropped my gaze to escape, and my eyes caught sight of something similar happening to him. He never did wear underwear.
We headed to a book shop and browsed, separately. Things had softened a little between us, but it was time to go home, before harm happened. He suggested we meet up again. ‘Maybe,’ I said. I need to put a safety net between me and him. I need some quality.