Category: Love (Page 2 of 3)

A few months into our relationship, my ex indicated to me that she had a crush on someone else.

“She doesn’t want to say this, and she isn’t going to mention it again, or act on it,” said Oxford (although his voice sounded a lot like the Seamstress’ own), “but… there is someone else.”

My eyes, already filled with tears, started to leak. As they rolled down my cheeks, he carried on.

“As for you,” he said to the Seamstress, “what do you think you are doing, hurting this beautiful boy? You don’t want to upset anyone, and Lady Pandorah would be very upset with you, so there.“

“Right,” I whispered through a veil of tears. “Thanks, Oxford.” And I curled up to cry as the Seamstress awkwardly – but sweetly – stroked the hair of the boy she hurt.

*

A few months after our relationship ended, I asked the question that I’d been aching to ask since that moment.

“You know how you said, a few months in, that you had a crush on someone else? Who was that?”
“Oh… no-one.”

That didn’t make sense. It couldn’t have been no-one. She wouldn’t have said there was otherwise.

“No, I really need to know. It doesn’t matter who it was. Really.”
“Oh. No-one.”

This time, there was a finality to her voice. The conversation ended, as they tend to do, and neither of us ever mentioned it again. In fact, I don’t think I have heard her voice since.

But I still wonder who it was. It can’t have really been no-one, or she wouldn’t have indicated otherwise.

It was more than a decade ago… but it still keeps me up at nights.

For the fourth time that day, I regretted not bringing a hat to Chessington. Although the continuous beat of the sun had proven quite effective in baking off the water I was covered in from Professor Burp’s Bubbleworks, it was still feeling quite oppressive as we stood patiently in the queue for Seastorm.

Lightsinthesky had left us a while ago, accusing us of living in “pencil-land” when we both refused to go on Rameses’ Revenge. Einstein and I were enjoying ourselves, however.

What neither of them knew was that I had had A Moment™ earlier that day. As usual, nobody had wanted to sit next to me on the bus, so I had a double seat to myself – most of the rowdy boys opposite me were more concerned with making V-signs at lorry drivers than haranguing me, so I had a quiet journey. As we pulled into Chessington, however, the radio blasted an Elton John track the instant the second bus came into view.

The first person I saw through the window was Zebra, the girl I had a crush on. Granted, she was the only one I’d been looking for, but the combination of the music’s swell and her long, dark hair (and beautiful toothy smile) had a profound effect on me. At that moment, all I felt was love, love, love, and the dark and difficult year I’d just had seemed to simply melt away.

As Einstein and I clambered onto Seastorm, she hovered into view again (and I mean that – her feet never seemed to touch the ground), accompanied by her short, cheeky friend and two tall, white girls with glasses. Eventually, I’d end up with a crush on all of them. But, at the time, I only had eyes for her.

“Look, there’s…” I started, but I never got to finish my sentence, as she faded into a blur when Seastorm started moving. I held on, let out a few whoops every now and again, and thought to myself, this is all right. Everything’s all right.

For the rest of the day, I kept an eye out for her, although the milieu of warm bodies throughout the park was too dense to make out her shape. I went on as many rides as I could, for sure, but I never did see her after Seastorm.

As it grew darker, the teachers corralled us and we were duly shepherded back onto our respective buses. I sat in the same seat, the multitudes prepared their V-sign fingers, and I trained my eyes on the window I’d seen Zebra sitting at that morning. As I’d hoped, she materialised in exactly the same place, smile fixed to her face, looking straight forwards.

She wouldn’t see me unless she turned to the right.

So I stared…

I’d barely checked in (and put my bag down) when I realised that I was, in fact, bored. I’d been bored all week – I had to be in the city for a few nights and had nowhere to go – and had spent quite a while in the big market square playing Pokémon Sapphire. I had, in fact, been there since Thursday, and had managed to source places to sleep until Sunday night. To whit, I acquiesced, walked to the most convenient hotel I knew… and asked for a room.

My bag stashed in my room, I took myself back down to the lobby/bar area and sat at what amounted to being a bar (although it wasn’t too much). The girl who had checked me in came up to ask what I wanted to drink, and it was at that point that I got a look at her properly.

Let’s get a bit of context here. I was 19 or 20 (or thereabouts) and had spent the entire day playing music (if what I do actually counts to the discerning listener as ‘music’). Following a week of boredom ending with a day of cacophonous racket, the one thing I really needed was a drink. My overwhelmed mind beginning to decompress, I noticed a couple of seconds after I started speaking that the girl I was talking to was incredibly pretty. I noticed in the mirror that the look I was giving her was somewhat appraising, and then a moment later that she was giving me the same sort of look.

Spark.

“Hello, could I please have a Friar Tuck?” I asked clearly and politely. “That’s full-fat Coke with a shot of blackcurrant cordial, if you’ve got that.”
“Coke and blackcurrant?” she repeated.
“Yes,” I sighed, and then fished around in my head for the necessary addendum to the question. “It’s a non-alcoholic cocktail invented in Nottingham and it’s…”
“It’s what I drink!”

I blinked.

“Excuse me?”
“It’s what I drink! Coke and blackcurrant! I like the combination! It’s very sweet! I’ve never met anyone else who likes it!”
“Oh!” I ejaculated. “Excellent!”

She handed me my Friar Tuck and, for a few seconds, both of us paused. It took me a while to remember I needed to pay for this, and as I fumbled for my change, I could feel her eyes on me. Focus, ILB. Focus.

After an eternity of silence and smiles, she drifted away to check in some git who had arrived specifically to distract her from me, and I found some solace in the trivia machine in the corner (I was the first to play it, as she told me later, so I was first on the scoreboard by default; I did quite well, nevertheless) for a while. A few games later, with my wallet lighter in my pocket, I finally took a sip of my drink.

It was the best drink I’d ever had.

*

I got back to my hotel room burning with energy, excitement, and a few other things. What do I do for her? was the question blazing trails through my head. Buy her something? Just be polite and thankful? Maybe I’ll ask her out. No, that’s stupid, when am I going to be here again?

I sat at the little desk that all hotels seem to have and pulled out some headed paper.

I know, I’ll write her a song, I genuinely then thought. And, after a fashion, that is exactly what I did – a few verses and even a chorus. I even used the word “exuberance” once, non-ironically. In my head, it resembled the finale from Antonín Dvořák’s ninth symphony (although, when I added chords a week later, it sounded nothing like it). I finished three pages of scribblings, crossings-out and corrections, signed my name and…

…what do I do now?

I couldn’t just go and give it to her. Weird guy checks into hotel you work in and writes you a song? That’s creepy. I stashed it in my bag, made myself a tea (also a hotel room thing), and looked for something else to do.

*

After breakfast the morning after (which I almost didn’t make it to: I was there three minutes before it ended), I went back to my room to pack (and, let’s be honest, clean up). On the desk, once I’d moved off all my stuff, I noticed a little card I’d overlooked the night before: a nomination card for a guest service award. I pulled out a thick black gel pen and carefully wrote out her name on it.

It proved more difficult to write out exactly why I was nominating her for an award. Somehow “I have only met her once but I think I have a crush on her, and moreover, I think she has a crush on me” didn’t quite sound right in my head. I wrote out something generic about being friendly and helpful, and quickly added “…also knows what my drink is” before taking it to the counter.

I checked out, paid for my one rented ‘movie’, and handed the card to the lady now occupying the counter.

“Oh, she’s a honey,” she said after glancing at the card. “I’ll make sure she gets this.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said, before adding, “well, tell her I said hello. I mean, you too. I mean, it was a very pleasant stay, I mean, yes, thank you, yes.”

ILB, the master of wondrous wit and ready repartée.

“Will we be seeing you again?”
“Oh, yes, yes, I’ll come back, I will, I promise,” I squeaked as I walked out of the door. Standing outside for the first time in twelve hours basking in the warm air, I took a few long, deep, steadying breaths before trudging my way back into the milieu of the city I knew so well.

I went back to that hotel once more, with 47 in tow at that point. It was then that he told me that he knew I was ILB.

I never saw her again.

I started a new job this week.

It is, to use the common parlance, about bloody time. I’m aware some people have been off work for much longer, but – as much as I complain about it – unemployment does not suit me. I’d be happy sitting at home drinking tea and playing HuniePop, with the occasional foray into sex blogging, but I need the routine and innate satisfaction that my chosen industry gives me.

Before you ask, no, I’m not in porn. I’m also no longer an actor. But still.

Like most other things in my life, this came along basically by chance. I got the call last week, and this week has been effectively a trial week. I was told I’d get more work this morning while making the coffee that’s been sustaining me.

When I mentioned the workplace a couple of weeks ago, my mother (who has the same sort of mental Rolodex as I do) instantly mentioned somebody I haven’t thought of for years. She had worked there too, and might have been able to give me some information. Did I want her contact number?

What my mother doesn’t know is that I already have her contact number.

For a while – and when I say “a while” I’m referring to the fact that I’m not entirely sure how long – I was sort-of-kind-of trying to date her. My mother, who had seen her crying at work and felt her parenting instincts kick in, invited her around for dinner at one point and I promptly spent the entire evening flirting being friendly. A month or so later, we went to see my mother in concert together (she was in a wind orchestra for a while); after filling up with millionaire’s shortbread, we exchanged numbers.

I wasn’t sure where to go from this point. I was recently out of a relationship and didn’t really know how to ask someone out (long-term readers may remember that I don’t). But, after weeks of dithering and indecision, my dad – who is a wizard – told me to ask her out.

But I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how to do that, so I asked my mother to ask her if she would like to get a coffee with me at some point. Mother reported back that coffee sounded nice, and to just text her to ask.

Which is, incidentally, what I should have done to begin with.

We never did go for a coffee. Our available dates didn’t match up, and the one time they did, she had a death in the family during the preceding week. She eventually moved into a relationship, as did I, and what we were left with was a distant friendship.

So I got in contact with her. Her cheery voice shines through her texts – in every letter. Her use of emoji radiant. Her positive attitude infections. By my second day at work, I felt confident in dropping her name. Everyone has something positive to say about her. Everyone says hello, so I have more excuses to continue texting.

Maybe I’ll get that coffee after all.