Written on 26 April 2019
He was just such a drip. Really nice and everything, but clawing, like he'd take on the tone you'd use on someone who'd just been in a horrific car accident for something minimal like a sneeze.
"Babe, are you okay? Do you want me to get you an antihistamine?"
And that's okay, obviously, I don't want to suggest that giving that much of a shit is a bad thing, I'm not that cold-hearted. It's just, Jesus, show me something.
My Mum would always say you need to find a partner who 'knocks your socks off.' Well he waits for you to take your own socks off before neatly folding them, placing them in the laundry and asking whether he can get your slippers for you.
Again, not a bad thing. Really not a bad thing. And I might regret this at some point. But it's got to stop. 18 months is long enough, and he's started hinting that we should move in together.
So, my mind's made up. I've taken enough of the poor guys time. I really shouldn't have said I love him, but then maybe I thought I did at the time. Still, I don't anymore and it's time.
Problem is, we're on a rather romantic date. I'm being treated, as always, but he's dressed that little more smartly today, the food is that little more fancy. And he looks nervous. This is bad. This is very bad.
We finish our decadent dessert, all gooey and chocolatey and delicious, and I feel terrible. He tries to order champagne, but I tell him no, I have to work tomorrow, and I don't want to drink anymore. He looks disappointed, but he's apparently undeterred.
"You know, when I first met you, I knew you were the one."
Fuck.
"I feel like we're so perfect together, that we're so comparable. Such a good fit. It just feels right."
Please don't. He's taken my hand.
"I love you."
And then I say the worst thing I've ever said.
"I love you too. . . . Or, do I?"
I say it in a jokey Kojak type manner. I even stroke a fake beard.
Thankfully, that was enough to postpone him popping the question. It was the beginning of the end. He started questioning our whole relationship, and a week later we were done by mutual consent. Admittedly, I wish I'd handled it better, and I hope it doesn't haunt him, but I'm so glad I added the ‘or do I’. Otherwise I'd probably now be married out of social embarrassment.