I’d been living with a hider and slider.

She cheated, and believed that was ok as long as I didn’t find out, I wasn’t so sure, knowing that dirt can hide only for so long before a stray shaft of sunlight catches and it’s remains are hidden no more.

An afternoon, spent looking at walls, thinking of her and the propaganda put out: I deserved it, retaliation in first or she knew it was over between us, therefore she could. Again I wasn’t so sure.

There was a knock at the door and I went, wanting distraction, company, even a salesman to shout at.

A friend of hers. My heart sank, thinking another diatribe, another justification, another round of ‘she had to cheat because you loved her too much.’

Maybe I had. Surely there was something I had done to deserve the gift of cheap nylon knickers I’d found in her drawer…

But no, the friend wanted to go for drinks and chat. I went but wondering the motive.

We sat, her necking cider and me chemical lager as she told her tales of other difficult men, their harsh disregard and wanton missing. But me? Oh, I was a gent. A man of the old school. A diamond for putting up with infidelities, did I know of? (no) had I found out about? (er, no) or that it was M. who’d given the scanty panties…(unfortunately. yes)

We drank. Sitting together as the afternoon slipped toward evening, talking of nothing but something and I was thinking that maybe I’d forgotten that this was how it could be. How time with a woman could be interesting, rather than a shrieking and of accusations to cover tracks.

Time got to later.

We went back to the narrowing walls left earlier.

There, I could still smell your Chanel.

The smell of Paris, me and you; created the first time you’d been there and your body had loved me twice, and in the Parfum shop, the us of that energy had mixed with the number five to create its own funk. That smell became you.

Smelling that only made me want to fuck you more. And now that was over.

She came in. sat on a chair, giggling with booze and some joke I’d made. I was hungry, could only find beans and bread. We ate this, warmed on the toast and then fell into silence as shadows climbed the walls.

I said, I had to sleep.

She said she needed too to, and walking would be too much do too.

We fell in together, beneath sheets reeking of your displeasure and my pain, only to snore for some hours.

I think I woke first. Feeling the half-light crawling over my face and remembering the hours before.

She got up, went to the toilet and I wondered what to do next.

She came back in, black bra and knickers, smiling.

‘I think I want you’

Lay next to me, touching me, holding me and I couldn’t get hard.

I couldn’t concentrate on her, maybe for the stink of you, effects of booze, time of day, needing to piss, but, nothing.

Felt her breasts, licked nipples, wanted to move down further. Instead I touched, checking for heat, excitement, something to excite me and found tightness.

That, I hadn’t expected.

She registered my surprise and spoke of vaginisimus, fey boy/men and women. Thinking back now, it wasn’t a long conversation but it did make sense of her relationships for me, I knew the feys, the women around her, the hint of friendships not quite but more than casual.

I didn’t want to go on either. Couldn’t. My tongue only wanted conversation and my lack of hard was still just that.

We stayed together in that failure bed for a little longer before dressing and going for a commiseration drink.

I didn’t see her for some time, long enough for that memory to go and for others to intrude.

That stinking bed passed on to the betrayer and her new beau, along with the walls, the curtains handed down to us and my fading fug of stale Chanel.

I took with me only what was portable; humiliation, books, music, clothes and the ashes.

Years passed by. I heard that the friend had married, had settled to buying a house, building a career and on into happiness, that was enough for me, details are only that, details. 

Then I bumped into her. Saturday morning, bright, early. Passing along the pavement, thinking of shoes, newspapers, a newer, more hopeful love. And she coming around a corner, stopped in surprise, as did I.

I blushed, I’d love to be more positive and say she did too. I certainly saw colour there and then came a smile; “what a fine pair eh?” she said, then, looking deeper into my shading eyes “both of us miles away, thinking and not looking where we’re going…”

And who was I to disagree?