I got an email yesterday from a former lover. An ex lover? I don't know what's appropriate in this case. There was never a relationship, so it's difficult to articulate. We met through a friend two or three years ago (how time flies when you're not paying her any attention!) and spent a debauched night together, but he moved to Cork the very next day, having lived on my street for a year. A friendship of sorts evolved; we'd talk, and email, sometimes sharing confidences and sometimes just sauce. We met a couple of times but he planned on travelling, had commitments at home and had no interest in pursuing anything more with me. Not that I ever asked, but it was abundantly clear.
Of course I kept up appearances with the mutual friend, allowed her to think that it might become more than it was. I was too embarrassed not to, crawling with mortification at my spineless lack of self-esteem. She thinks the world of me. I didn't want to let her know that I thought so little of myself, and that I'd managed to make nothing more of it than a tawdry, take me for granted so long as you'll take me affair.
He stood me up one night, leaving me standing on the street for an hour because he'd blacked out just after he'd called me. Two days later he called to apologise. Two days. "If I ring from the pub, ask me how many pints I've had. If I say more than eight, hang up." He knew that it was a problem, and planned on giving up smoking and drinking once he turned 30 - revelling in the damage meanwhile. He probably will quit, and I'll probably continue to court my hangovers at weekends and call it a habit. Or a hobby.
And now, after a year abroad, he sends me a mail. One line, fishing. Saying nothing and splattering it carelessly with typos; a bored and halfhearted tap on the shoulder. Time was, I would have been thrilled at his lazy dangling of the bait. Time was? Time might be again, but right now I'm working hard to cultivate a sense of self-worth that sees me hope for more than an occasional booty call.
Of course I kept up appearances with the mutual friend, allowed her to think that it might become more than it was. I was too embarrassed not to, crawling with mortification at my spineless lack of self-esteem. She thinks the world of me. I didn't want to let her know that I thought so little of myself, and that I'd managed to make nothing more of it than a tawdry, take me for granted so long as you'll take me affair.
He stood me up one night, leaving me standing on the street for an hour because he'd blacked out just after he'd called me. Two days later he called to apologise. Two days. "If I ring from the pub, ask me how many pints I've had. If I say more than eight, hang up." He knew that it was a problem, and planned on giving up smoking and drinking once he turned 30 - revelling in the damage meanwhile. He probably will quit, and I'll probably continue to court my hangovers at weekends and call it a habit. Or a hobby.
And now, after a year abroad, he sends me a mail. One line, fishing. Saying nothing and splattering it carelessly with typos; a bored and halfhearted tap on the shoulder. Time was, I would have been thrilled at his lazy dangling of the bait. Time was? Time might be again, but right now I'm working hard to cultivate a sense of self-worth that sees me hope for more than an occasional booty call.
