Remember To Go When You Leave

I would much rather be merry than wise; be dicked down than stand upright. I’d prefer a tongue spiralled down my throat; a hand parting my thighs, than to be dignified (damned) in heaven. The cindering of hell – mercifully with him – I prefer that. So when he called my phone, I answered. I had been binge-watching Narcos on Netflix. I sat slouched like an empty leather bag; my anti-glare coated glasses glowed green as the light entered my eyes. The screen went black as it automatically switched to the next episode and I could see my big head in the reflection of my screen, smiling stupidly. A voice in my head (or my better self, if you believe you are what you intend and not what you do) made me want to stop and do something less numbing, but it didn’t have enough time before the “Skip Intro” button appeared offering more immediate gratification. Then my iPhone lit up. It was a private number calling, but I knew it was him,

“Hello”

“You blocked me?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“You know why Reuben.”

“Can we talk?”

“We are talking.”

“Funny. Can I come get you so we can talk in person?”

“Yeah.”

Our “relationship” is an apology of love. We are going to have the same conversation we always have. Then we will have sex in the back of his 1 Series out of respect for our parents’ roofs. We will have the kind of sex that makes you sweat and moan and bite and grab and echo deep sighs. Then we will drive to Harrow Road in Sudbury and choose from one of the derivatives of KFC (RFC, PFC, Chicken Cottage, Chicken Land or Sam’s). I haven’t been able to move past the pigeon meat conspiracy theories so I’ll go for a greasy margarita pizza (they sell everything). We will eat and talk about our families and our dreams of “making it out” until 4am, at which point he will drive me home. Ceremoniously, I will ask him to let me know when he gets home as my left foot leads me out of the car. He will wait for me to walk into my house. Whilst locking the door, I will hear his engine purr as he turns right off my road. Then we will be obsessed with each other until the next I don’t want to, or I can’t, do this anymore. Tonight it will all be the same except I will be stiller, unsentimental. I’m ready to settle.

This most recent break up has been going for six months. I was hopeful about it: if I did not find someone who would want to be with me, and I them, I would be enough for myself… I thought. But I found I am not enough and I don’t want to be enough. I want someone to rub my bum and be romantically compelled to (and therefore justifiably) prioritize me above all others. My best friend used to say my experience with men was merely unfortunate. I wasn’t sure then, but now I am confident it is by design; I know she is too now. When I call after some other “unfortunate” event, these days she offers me a listening ear (an affirmative silence) instead of her reassurance that I will find someone who deserves me. I appreciate her honesty. It hurts, but you can’t deceive yourself because it’s nicer to have hope. It’s not that I’m ugly inside or out, or uninteresting, it’s just that I am both unlikely to do better than Reuben and unwilling to be alone.

My friends say I would not be alone because I have them. It makes me laugh. The institution of friendship has not been radicalised enough to support their claims. And they cannot make me forget that I am a human being; there is not enough emotional intelligence in the world to be okay with such abject singlehood. If any of them were single they might know it is a terrible time to be alone – especially if you live in Zone 4. You have to be prepared, if you want to spend the evening with other people, to travel the time it takes to get to Paris. You must accept that a friend, who five minutes ago was not prepared to get on the Jubilee line for ten minutes, from Willesden Green to Wembley Park, is now ready to take two trains and a bus, through lashings of rain, to meet their lover in Deptford. When you are so overwhelmed with loneliness and take them up on their offer to call them in such times, you will have to develop a tasteful invocation of amnesia when calls are answered in the presence of their lover (because they are always with them). The tears in your voice will be sobered by the unexpected audience and you will abort the call with a practiced inflection on “I’ll leave you both to it!” You will want to be disappointed and call them out on it, but you are always incriminated by your own fantasy of one day helping to keep platonic relationships in their rightful place, when the right person comes along. You will grow tired of people telling you to be sated with loving yourself, who you don’t particularly fancy in that way. The best thing about being single in London is no one will bother you when you’re crying on the platform because a friend cancelled plans on short notice, as their partner “needs” them.

I decided when he called again I would not ignore him. I am cool with not trying anymore (dating is the ghetto). I don’t love the idea of quitting, but I do love the unbridled freedom in it – however brief. When we are doing something challenging, there is always the tantalizing promise of quitting on the horizon. We are afraid of running towards it because of people’s judgments and the notion that there is something better if we just keep going. Some people are not strong enough to settle; others are scared to admit they are already doing it. As a settler, I can tell you it is like the moment you unbutton your trousers after eating a big ass meal and let things sit exactly in the way they want to sit. You have to be shameless. You have to consider that there may not be a light at the end of this tunnel.    

It’s 1am. He will be here in fifteen minutes so I have a quick shower and trim and shave. I rub shea butter over my body and spray some perfume (eau du toilette so it smells less intentional) on my wrists and both sides of my neck. I wear a dress because it will be easy to take off when the time comes. I take my braids out of the bun. I love looking at myself in the mirror at home. Outside, I feel my beauty deactivated by comparisons. My sister is at the door watching me get ready with one arm wrapped under her boobs and tucked in her armpit and the other arm hanging limply with her phone in her hand. I see her boyfriend on her phone, he’s walking around his room in boxers via a now muted FaceTime call.

“Where are you going at this time?”

“You know where I’m going.”

I’m embarrassed so I don’t look at her in the eyes and busy myself packing my bag with keys, money, Vaseline and my Oyster Card (in case things go left and I dramatically ask to leave the car and he calls my bluff).

“This is a bad idea. You’ve been doing really well. He won’t respect you. You won’t be able to respect yourself if you keep going in circles like this. Why don’t we watch a film or go for a walk?”

I pretend I’m looking for something I can’t find as an excuse for ignoring her. I start mouthing (very realistically) “where are my keys!?” I have nothing to say that she would understand. For some of us, eligible mandem are scarce and reluctant. And anyway, I don’t care if he doesn’t respect me; I don’t respect him myself. Can you respect a comfort blanket? Don’t you just grab it when you need it? I act like I couldn’t find the keys, walk past her and head downstairs. My iPhone lights up.

“Hello.”

“I’m outside.”

I am deliberately swaying my hips as I walk towards the car because I know he will see me coming. I have missed him. I have missed his car; it’s like a hammock in a perverted paradise for me. As I get closer I see his face under the yellow of the interior lights. He looks up at me from his phone and I’m really cat walking now (I like to look around like an observant pedestrian to make it look natural). I am not going to indulge in The Conversation. I am just going to enjoy not being alone. There is a click as the car unlocks when my hand reaches out to open the door. Once I’m inside, he hugs me as if he thought he would never see me again. The smell of old coffee, pink cans of California Scents’ car fragrance, and his freshly showered body is homely. But something in me dies as soon as I strap on my seatbelt. Nothing big. It’s similar to the feeling you get when you obligingly laugh at jokes that aren’t funny.

This story is inspired by a poem by Kaleke Kolawole called Gobbledygoo. You can check her out on Instagram @Kaleke.