I heard my name muttered as I rooted through my clutch in the pub queue. I knew that voice, lifting my head to confirm my suspicions, there he was. He stood there confidently before giving me a quick glance up and down. I was wearing a little black dress and red lippy, his cigarette smoke now swirling into my open handbag. I knew that voice, it sounded happy to see me.
We didn’t usually meet in pub queues, we had spent every meeting before this one under his duvet covers, intertwined on his couch, or the most recent, driving in his car drowning in an awkward silence.
I wanted to give a quick Valentino dupe heel to his ego area, but I wasn’t even in the pub yet. Why were we standing here trying to make small talk on a frosty Saturday night? Why was he looking at me as if we had things that were left unsaid? Why do they always come back after fucking everything up?
His actions said everything when I was in that passenger seat, things between us had detached as permanently as a gal’s bodysuit in a nightclub bathroom cubicle when her friends aren’t there to help her out. He didn’t want me, but all of a sudden, one little black dress and sexy Snapchat story later, he was willing to sweep all of the disrespect under the carpet for a few hours.
I walked into the pub, headed to the loo to fix my hair, collapsed against the sink and rooted through my Snapchat list – “Opened 7 weeks ago.” There it was, still. Once again I asked myself, why do they always come back after fucking everything up?