....and there's more

After sex, (I'm tempted to put 'post-coitus' but, er, no....), we went to the pub. I looked quite cute, my hair straightened, but still substantial, still Sienna Miller jagged. Big green eyes. Long lean body in jeans and an off-the-shoulder top. We went to his local, a low-ceilinged country affair into which you expect Chief Inspector Barnaby to come, head politely bowed under the beams, a tight smile, bright eyes and a warrant card. But no, those (barring the latter) belonged to QIE as he returned to our table clutching my perennial favourite and a pint of lager for himself. We chatted away about literature, about work, about all those things which ringfence the real horrors of quiet chats in pubs between couples.

'You want reassurance, don't you?' he prodded. I'd chosen to tuck my feet in their white, pony-hoof trainers beneath me like a little kid. The hair was ripe for playing with, for drawing childish curtains across conversations that I really didn't want to have.

'No!' I replied, trying to be 'cool.'

'Yes, you do,' he chided, grinning at me. He has a look which we call 'sideways, incisive.' He did it then. He does it now in my mind, Goddamnit. And like Pavlov's dog, I crumbled a little bit, sniffing through a resistance to tears that,

'I really like you.....and.....I thought we were together.'

This massively ironic statement coming from the girl with The Rude and Immoral Blog. I know, I know and I know again but, well nothing, really. There's cock-all defence for my behaviour and I know (x 3) it more than you lot reading it. I'm trying to write a pithy defence, but it would only be defending my ego which, to be honest, loves this.....from the gawky one at school to the one with a man in every county. At least that's how it feels and my tyres are wearing thin with the effort of Driving Miss Crazy.

Anyway, the upshot is that after his marriage broke down (3 years ago), and his last girlfriend dumped him a week before they were due to move in together (1 year ago), he's feeling a little wary. And all this after a gentle slagging of his friends, middle-aged married men, like himself, who, unlike himself, don't have the 'two things between your legs' necessary to get out of difficult situations. He'd given me this bleating rant as I sat there modestly, smiling, thinking that whilst he might be shit hot at getting himself out of ruts, he doesn't half fuck around when it comes to getting into something challenging.

We walked home. It wasn't quite dark, despite the time. The church bells rang and an owl hooted. We rounded the corner of his road and he put one arm through mine.

'You're special,' he said, 'I miss you when you're not here and I think about you a lot.'

He also wanted sex that night. I denied him, rolled over onto my beating stomach and mimicked sleep until, come 2am, it finally got to me and I surrendered myself to his contented snores.