Because I Can't Make You Pick Me
So, Wifey knows about us. Over MSN, Matt updates me: “She’s very upset” he says, “She’s been crying a lot.” “Uh huh..” I say. Don’t say it, I will him silently. Not this way. “So what are you going to do about it?” I manage. He’s quiet for a while.
“Can I ask something of you?” he finally asks. “Uh huh?” I say. Anything, just don’t ask me to go. I will eventually, but not now. “Give me a week. Let’s stop seeing each other for a week so I can settle her.” he says. You’re just not that special.
“I don’t know what to say.” It’s true, I don’t.
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Balaclava on a Wednesday night, where men hover, locate their prey and move in for the kill. Here, you don’t need to be beautiful, just as long as you are vaguely presentable. The men don’t need to be smart, witty or rich, just as long as they can afford a couple of wines during happy hour. Call it complicated, but really, it’s all very simple.
Tonight, drinks flow like water, courtesy of new-found “friends” introduced by Mickey. They are banker types. The types who give you namecards asking you to “call (them)”. Types I cannot stand. Leave me alone, I just want to drink in peace. Beverly and some girlfriends join me. Beanstalk and Beng too. So does Kiddo. At last, real friends. More drinks.
Amidst beer, wine and the odd Chivas, I remember the girls hugging me. I remember the guys patting my head, ruffling my hair. I remember telling a sleazy guy to “screw off”. I remember Kiddo offering me a 50-50 bourbon coke. I remember texting Wifey (don’t ask how I got her number) “He’s yours, I’m letting go.” I remember crying in the toilet. I remember texting Matt “One of us has to go Baby.. Might as well be me. Really love you but you are not mine to keep.” I remember crawling into the cab at midnight. I remember hiding my tears from my mum. I remember crying myself to sleep.
I remember Matt and thinking how someone so right can be so wrong.
“Can I ask something of you?” he finally asks. “Uh huh?” I say. Anything, just don’t ask me to go. I will eventually, but not now. “Give me a week. Let’s stop seeing each other for a week so I can settle her.” he says. You’re just not that special.
“I don’t know what to say.” It’s true, I don’t.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Balaclava on a Wednesday night, where men hover, locate their prey and move in for the kill. Here, you don’t need to be beautiful, just as long as you are vaguely presentable. The men don’t need to be smart, witty or rich, just as long as they can afford a couple of wines during happy hour. Call it complicated, but really, it’s all very simple.
Tonight, drinks flow like water, courtesy of new-found “friends” introduced by Mickey. They are banker types. The types who give you namecards asking you to “call (them)”. Types I cannot stand. Leave me alone, I just want to drink in peace. Beverly and some girlfriends join me. Beanstalk and Beng too. So does Kiddo. At last, real friends. More drinks.
Amidst beer, wine and the odd Chivas, I remember the girls hugging me. I remember the guys patting my head, ruffling my hair. I remember telling a sleazy guy to “screw off”. I remember Kiddo offering me a 50-50 bourbon coke. I remember texting Wifey (don’t ask how I got her number) “He’s yours, I’m letting go.” I remember crying in the toilet. I remember texting Matt “One of us has to go Baby.. Might as well be me. Really love you but you are not mine to keep.” I remember crawling into the cab at midnight. I remember hiding my tears from my mum. I remember crying myself to sleep.
I remember Matt and thinking how someone so right can be so wrong.
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