I met with Julie last night – for the first time since we broke up and she charged away from me in a taxi down Shaftesbury Avenue. As you can imagine I was nervous as hell, wondering what on earth the evening was going to bring. All day long I steeled myself for a drink hurled into my face, or a ruthless pulling apart of my personality. Mid afternoon I went and sat in the toilet cubicle and tried to work out how bad it could possibly be, and then readied myself for that eventuality. In short, I was terrified.
We met in The Sherlock Holmes on Northumberland Avenue, and one thing I didn’t expect was that she would be there early. I walked in and there she sat, just inside the door, by the window. On the table in front of her was a vodka and coke, which she had consumed half of already. She looked good, dressed in a long black dress with an understandably pensive look on her face. When she saw me though, she did smile as best she could. Only hesitating for a second, I gave her a kiss on the cheek and hurried up to get a drink.
I couldn’t conceive that there was any way I’d have a long time to say my piece, so I spoke quickly. For the first time I told her properly about my dreams, about the incredible visions I have inside my head; explaining that on a regular basis I see the world destroyed, and have to find out what’s going on. I could feel myself talking fast, as I was so excited and desperate to get it all out – but as calmly as I could manage I told her that I’d somehow boxed myself into a corner where I wasn’t telling her what was happening, what the concerns of my mind were. That’s the reason I broke up with her, there wasn’t anything else at all.
And when I looked at her again she was crying.
Surprised I almost blurted out: “Are you okay?” But I noticed in between her tears, a smile.
“Oh,” she said, “you stupid man! You could have told me this at any point. I’ll always be there for you. Please don’t shut me out again. I’m here for you. I’m always here for you.”
I held her hand back. “I’ve missed you,”
“I’ve missed you too.”
As we couldn’t hope the hold the serious pitch all evening long, from then on the conversation got lighter. We caught up with each other and all the latest news in our lives. All the time holding hands across the table, our fingers twisted in tight together.
And, incredibly, at the end we kissed. Outside the pub we walked without touching, just our shoulders brushing for a moment or two. I didn’t know what was going to happen, whether anything was going to happen at all – but when we turned to face each other it felt right. It was a soft kiss, a gentle kiss – dare I say it – a loving kiss. We didn’t snog, we didn’t grope. We just passed how much we cared about each other across in a simple brush of the lips. There was no official confirmation, but I think I might be able to count her as my girlfriend again. I want to certainly.
We’re meeting up again Sunday.
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