Tag Archives: love

286. The beard must go

The beard must go, his girlfriend told him. She was finally going to introduce him to her parents but not without making the necessary changes.

He loved her but was hesitant to shave. The beard had been with him longer than she had. In some ways it was the longest, most meaningful relationship he’d ever had. Did he really want to give that up for her?

Like he had given up meat?

And alcohol?

And most of his old friends?

Staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, a can of shaving foam in one hand and a razor in the other, he made up his mind.

The beard will stay.

His girlfriend must go.

 

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279. Damn your vertigo

Damn your vertigo.

And damn my lack of it.

Now I’m stuck here on the Ferris wheel.

And you are down there eating candyfloss.

With that guy that is totally hitting on you.

No, don’t laugh at his jokes.

Don’t glance into his eyes.

And for god’s sake don’t let him put his hand on your hip.

I’m still up here.

The one frantically waiving the operator to let me down again.

Before it’s too late.

Before you walk out of my life.

Before you’ll miss the chance to meet that stranger on the Ferris wheel who has loved you since he first looked down on you.

 

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278. The autophagus

The autophagus extracted another piece of salty slime from his nose and put it in his mouth, making sure no-one would spot his uncommon behaviour. Through the years he had become a master in concealing his vice. He’d had to, for if they found out the truth about his nature, the human authorities would certainly be dissecting him.

 

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272. Trust a Sikh and I fire a Jew

“Trust a Sikh and I fire a Jew.”

Her off-key singing voice overpowers the sound of water bursting through the showerhead.

She sure gets the lyrics of just about every song horribly, horribly wrong.

But I love her.

Nothing else matters.

 

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269. The day after

The day after, the euphoria has subsided and suddenly transformed into fear.

What if she doesn’t love me? What if I was just a fling? A body to use for one night only, with no intention of reciprocating feelings the next day?

But then I remember her warm embrace and the sweet kisses she blew in my ear. I recall how we not just clicked sexually but on a deeper level. And I think back to the look in her eyes, so telling in her fondness of me.

The worried frown in the bathroom mirror turns into a confident smile, as I walk back into the apartment.

Just in time to see her close the front door behind her and notice she has left neither a note nor a phone number on the crumpled bed sheets.

 

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234. I might love her

“I might love her.”

He blurted it out, unprovoked, unexpectedly.

They had been talking about quantum computing, philosophy, football, politics. In short: everything two friends would talk about after not having seen each other for months. But on the fifth pint, they finally arrived at the subject of girls and the surprising confession.

His friend didn’t even know he had a girlfriend. His love life was not something he often talked about after all. Not because he didn’t have one. But because he didn’t like to arouse wild expectations about what would often be a fling and nothing more. Yet somehow, tonight, he felt compelled to tell his friend he could perhaps love the girl he was currently seeing.

He didn’t know why he chose to utter those four words. He didn’t even realise he felt that way before he expressed the sentiment. It had been a long time since he last told anyone he might be in love, as a matter of fact. A very long time.

His friend patted him on the back and for the next few minutes he told him how they met, that they were colleagues and that nobody in the office had an inkling they were seeing each other. He told him he didn’t really expect this affair to go beyond the one-year-itch that had proved fatal so often in his life. And he told him once more that – despite all that – he might love her.

He might.

He just might.

Or as his friend, the guy he’d known longer than any other person in his life bar his family, proudly, happily, more accurately put it:

“You do.”

 

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225. She does yoga and calls it a sport

She does yoga and calls it a sport.

I sit in front of the TV and watch the football. I’d call that a sport as well.

She doesn’t.

But as long as she allows me to be her downward dog, I’ll let it slide and worship her like Messi.

 

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220. There was an i in team

There was an i in team, the way she pronounced it, as was there a q in estuary, a zee in apostrophe and two silent h’s in contemporary. In short: her grasp of the English language left something to be desired.

She had tried everything to remedy her impediment: speech therapists, jaw surgeons, even the occasional faith healer, but none of them had worked enough magic to rid her of the jumbling of letters that made her sentences so unintelligible.

Not that I cared. I loved the way she mangled her words. I loved working out what it was she was actually saying and then getting it totally wrong. I loved her broken, garbled speech and every misguided syllable she ever pronounced.

And when I asked her if she would marry me, I loved that I could not understand whether she said yes or no.

Hell, I wasn’t even listening.

I just looked into her eyes.

And I knew.

 

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196. If I hug you, will it warm you?

If I hug you, will it warm you?

She shakes her head.

It is winter in her heart and spring is not forthcoming.

My princess has become an ice queen.

And she has made it abundantly clear that the prince she’ll allow to thaw her frozen veins no longer bears my name.

 

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159. I first kissed her when I was eleven and she was ten

I first kissed her when I was eleven and she was ten. It was all very shy and cutesy and twee. Eyes closed, two lips locking, no tongue of course. No spark either. We called it love but was it really anything more than liking each other’s company? A simple sealing of a close friendship?

 

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