Reading a detective novel didn’t really help. It inspired something. Maybe being the son of a D.I antagonised things even further, but nonetheless, I found myself putting two and two together and coming up with four.
I’d not heard from her properly in months. Her Facebook page was silent. No response to the “I miss you” text. In spite of recent chat about coming to meet me if funds allow at the end of August (something that lifted my heart immensely); I had to turn to social media to investigate the truth. I discovered her, her friend and her boyfriend, and another tattooed, muscle chump in the same endless pictures, enjoying fields and sun and smokes. Flaunting how much “fun” it clearly was. His profile picture was of him and her, his status said “in a relationship”. She shunned pictures with me. I phoned. The truth will out.
She answered questioningly. Deleted my number? No, she’d “lost her phone.” So she still had the same digits? Interesting. How did I know? I found out on fucking Facebook that’s how. And then lots of bullshit about not having heard from me in a long time, and that the age gap had got to her. This was news to me, as for the entire time we had together it was never an issue. In fact she was “turned on” by the difference and loved it. Her job as a an elderly support worker would be useful for us in the future. And yet apparently she’d told me from the start that it was a problem. Defensively accusing. More bullshit.
So too was the “I’m not ready for a relationship” crap. “I want you to wait for me”. “You’re the benchmark”. “I can’t wait to be your girlfriend.” Said lovingly in the shadow of the home I grew up in. I could go on, but I won’t continue to spout her endless rhetoric.
She was the first girl to visit my parents graves. I always said to myself that the girl who does that was going to be the one. You can take her to a fancy restaurant, stroll along a beach, lie on the green grass smoking a rollie. But bringing her to where your home used to be isn’t whimsical. It’s not cheap. It comes at a great price.
Literally as well as figuratively. Spending a small fortune on her, flying to see her, flying her to you, perfect presents for her birthday, and expensive weeks away in fancy apartments. Now don’t get me wrong; money isn’t the issue. But the foolish act of blindly falling for someone who inevitably turned out to be so backstabbingly deceitful is. I was taken for a ride by someone I thought was different. I was convinced she was different. I defended her and her intentions to the last.
And now I feel deceived. And foolish, childish, used and helpless. There will be many more adjectives in the days to come. I should have listened to the dearest people who know me best. My bank balance and heart would be in better condition. My mind flits from intimate moment to intimate moment. The deception. The bare faced lies. All done in the most sacred sanctity of afterglow. What was better? The endless conversations putting the world to rights, or the sex? Now there she sits with some flawless inked up “hunk”. Maybe I needed to get abs? Maybe I needed a tattoo? What does he have that I don’t? Does he or will he ever know her as well as I do? Was the “best sex I’ve ever had” a lie too? Can he ever love her as much as I do? Does he kiss better than me? I fucking doubt it.
“I will always love you”…
“Do you still love me?”
“Don’t ask me that.”
A bullet dodged advised my sister. Right now I just want to take a real one. But at least she’s happy right?