Well, going back through my Tumblr, I realized that I told you guys I went on that date with that cute guy. So I should update you on that.
We went on that date. We met at 2pm and he was wearing black jeans and a black leather jacket and had a beard, which I was not prepared for, and I wearing a black wrap dress and a black coat, so we were well matched from day one. I thought I’d have one or two cocktails and go home after two hours. I had one or two cocktails and half a bottle of wine and a few jacks and cokes and we talked for seven. He bought me a bloody mary and dared me to eat the chilli; when I returned the favour, he chowed it down and teared up and I kissed the taste of it out of his mouth. I never wanted it to end. He was funny and open and unassuming and humble. He walked me to the station and held me close and kissed me goodbye.
And we kept going on dates - for the next two years. Once every month on the 30th, since the day we met. Guys. He was beautiful. He still is. The most beautiful, broken, dumb person I know.
We fell in love. I first told him I loved him drunk on cocktails after my birthday; I told him likeI couldn’t keep the words in and turned away, hiding my face in my pillow, and he laughed and turned me over and said it back, asked me when I knew, said he’d been waiting to see if I’d cave. I brought him home, halfway across the world, to meet my family. He drove me to the English countryside to meet his. It was there he told me he wanted to be with me forever, that I was the love of his life, for the first time. We met each others friends. Thought about getting married, about moving in together. He wanted a jet black kitten who treated me with careless derision; I wanted a giant furball of a dog who looked at him with stars in its eyes. We texted nonstop from morning til night. He became my best friend; we never went to bed without saying we loved each other. He’d call me at 4am in the morning from a stag do in Hungary and drunkenly tell me how much he loved me and missed me; how could he miss me so much when he hadn’t know me that long? How could he miss me when he’d seen me three days ago? And a year and a half later I’d return the favour, him in London and me in Paris, to wish him Happy New Year and tell him I couldn’t wait to see him even though I’d only gone three days without him. We’d lie in bed, quiet, chests pressed together, so I could hear his heartbeat and breathe through my anxiety.
We’d go to the pub after work and sit, knees knocking against each other, whispering conspirationally in a corner, and we never ran out of things to talk about. He’d invite me out with his friends and they’d shoulder him, shocked, saying, “That’s her? Dude. How did you swing that? How much did you pay her to pretend to be your girlfriend?”, when I showed up, and he’d sling his arm around my waist and grin smugly at them. We’d sit in front of the fire, him with one hand on his dog and the other on my leg, and tell me he was so happy, sitting there warm and cosy with his two favourite girls. We made a blanket fort in my living room and sat inside for the whole day, drinking wine and watching cartoons. We’d lie in bed and he’d show me animal gifs that made me dissolve into hysterical giggles and I’d dig my face into his soft belly and laugh myself silly and he’d tell me it was his favourite sound in the world. We watched youtube cooking videos with avid fascination and recreated the dishes, dancing around each other in my tiny kitchen. We went to Berlin and held hands and wandered through museums and he kissed my forehead at traffic lights, standing in front of works of art, at train stations, at bars while I was waiting for my drink and I took photos of him drinking out of giant steins and send them to all his friends. We’d go to Richmond Park and race sticks down rivers and do cartwheels in the grass and drink prosecco with our legs dangling over the Thames. I’d wake up in the morning and look at him sleeping in the morning sunlight, his dark eyelashes against his pink cheeks, dark hair all ruffled from my hands, sticking up with leftover hairgel from the night before, and wonder how I got this lucky.
It’s been a brilliant two years with this life that he helped me to build; two years of freedom and parties and festivals and dinners and quiet nights in, in this life I shared with him.
Then my visa extension got rejected in January, and blew it all the fuck up.
So now I’m back in Melbourne, and he’s still in London, and we’re still the loves of each others’ lives except now there’s like... pain and distance. I don’t know when I’m going back - I’ve got a job ofer but nobody knows. We’re not together anymore. The last thing we ever said to each other, after the break up and the messiness, was that we loved each other. The last time he saw me was two months after we broke up; he wrapped his arms around my waist, under my winter coat, and dug his face into my neck and whispered brokenly that he loved me, over and over and over until I lost count. And then he kissed me, for a long time. And then I had to leave to catch my flight.
So... hey. I’m back. Probably worth telling you what I’ve been up to all this while... falling in love, getting my heart broken, trying to figure out how to be normal again. Ah well. Life goes on I guess.
