Tuesday, December 27, 2011

The end of a thing

After half a night of sleep, I went off early in the morning in search of The Ex. I wanted to avoid finding her at her home on her own turf. To this end I chose my foolproof method, a favorite of late - waylaying her by suddenly dropping into view from atop a tree as she passed near it.

It was a long wait. I had a long time to reconsider my intent, and nearly went back to bed. Trees accept no liability for damages sustained by sleepy climbers who begin to doze in branches. But I stayed on the branch, watching birds to pass time.

At last, The Ex walked into view, resplendent in a simple outfit (and leso), setting my heart racing. Eagerly I leaped to the ground. I startled her by so appearing. This, added to the fact that we were not on talking terms, naturally meant that her salutations were frosty.

"Get a job or something!" she spat.

"I've wronged you many times," I gushed, like one reciting a poem he could forget halfway through, "Trust me, I'm very sorry. Please forgive me."

The subsequent look of shock on The Ex indicated that my apology was entirely unforeseen. She thought about it for a while and finally stuttered, "Me too... I'm sorry."

And then her gaze became quizzical as the full meaning of those words sank. The same wonder had struck me dumb when I first began to see how straightforward everything became after an admission of guilt.

There. That was the best way out of our impasse; the end of the thing.

Of course I wanted to believe that the silence and sustained eye-to-eye that followed was more meaningful than a mutual sigh of relief, but I couldn't afford such confusion so early in the morning. I was lucky enough to have my "many wrongs" written off without scrutiny or analysis. Don't push it, said my instinct. So, while this our tactical rapprochement was still freshly baked, I briskly turned homeward to catch the rest of my sleep.

It was all over. Unless perhaps Jennifer would go and betray our secret, and then the outrage thereof might follow me into romantic retirement. But this prospect wasn't too nightmarish in the light of a free clean break from the past, an all-purpose get-out-of-jail-free card for all "bad things," whatever they were, known and unknown. Conversely, I was affording The Ex as much in the spirit of "live and let live" - no questions asked, no mention of Brian, no obligation to make up with me.

The whole fiasco made one thing abundantly clear (dear readers you've all heard this one before): I was too green for a relationship. Hell, I still lived under my mum's roof, while others were moving into their own houses and warming them. Scandalous!

Nevertheless, while that snag remains unresolved, single lifestyle dogma, bachelor-power creed and survivalist literature will have to occupy my time until the outlook improves. In the meantime, soccer and swimming will suffice. Plus a thick skin.

Luckily, new reggae is released every day. It helps make life a celebration, if you hear me correctly.

Moody rock will be the end of us.

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