"Kieran, I've met them all. Every one of them nuts."
My brother hadn't actually met every one of my girlfriends, but my he was nonetheless right.
And now I'd had enough of women. Or so I thought ...
>>>>>
I didn't join in the banter with my colleagues on the coach. Still raw, still wounded, I had much on my mind.
Fuck women. Or rather, don't.
Then another one arrived.
"Mind if I join you? You look like you could do with company."
Five foot seven inches tall, on the slim side of shapely, gleaming dark eyes, sporting an auburn mop, Emily Crow sat next to me anyway. I didn't want her to. I had hoped to get off the coach, abandon my workmates, and explore the long shoreline on my own.
Oh but Emily had other ideas. And what a smile.
Ach, what the hell - another one showing an interest in me. I'd be alone again soon enough.
We cut off from the others and found a greasy spoon before taking a stroll along the prom and out to the water's edge. It became a pleasant afternoon getting to know one another.
Turned out she was a clever woman, intelligent even. Probably on her best behaviour. Emily Crow made it clear she fancied me.
What am I to do? I can't help it... Pheromones were already working and libidonous sub-routines were now running.
We spent much time together the following month, mainly at the house where she lived with her two young children. The kids' father owned the place but lived elsewhere. He was chronically ill and receiving medical care. I knew nothing about any of this at the time.
Whenever childcare was available we did the usual couples stuff - meeting friends in pubs, finding a table-for-two at some city restaurant. We'd also take the little ones out to a park or to one of those activity centres with ball-pits and stuff for kids to climb over.
I liked her kids. They absorbed me comfortably into their routine. (As with how many others before me?) No talk of living together, thank God. That, if ever, would be a long way away. Even unthinkable.
Sex was OK. No better than that. Without going into detail I'll just say we didn't share entirely the same tastes, whether in bed or over the coffee table. She was damaged goods. But how damaged?
She'd fly off the rail without warning with outbursts of anger and frustration vented at some undefined wrong suffered earlier in her life. Then she'd turn sweetness and light.
"Beer or wine? I've a couple of bottles of red and there are cans in the fridge."
"Wine," I said, hoping it might prove more romantic, less laddish. She set the table and I cleared toys from off the floor.
After the meal it was more red wine as we cuddled on the couch to watch a movie. A familiar domestic routine in any relationship. Perhaps sensing my thought, she asked, "Do you want to go to the pub tomorrow night? My pal Angela offered to babysit?"
"Eh ... I'll need to ..."
She jumped up and stormed into the kitchen. Drawers slammed and dishes clattered.
"Come on, what's the matter?" I said, following her.
"You were going to call off seeing me tomorrow, weren't you! You don't want to be stuck with a single parent ..." I had no idea where this came from. I'd never stood her up for any reason, none at all, since we'd got together.
"Hold on," I said, "So you're giving me a hard time because of some hypothetical scene playing in your head? You never even let me answer."
Embarrassed at her gaff, she snapped out of it.
"Emily, I just need to see my brother tomorrow. He may be losing his job soon ..."
"I'm sorry," she murmured. Now she was hugging me.
"It's OK," I lied. But I really didn't want this crap.
"I'm so sorry," she repeated, now weeping.
"Why not spend an hour or two with your pals and I'll join you around nine?" Now she smiled at my thoughtfulness. The post-trauma sex was good. But lust isn't love. And could I stick it out with yet another loon?
That night in bed Emily threw a fit and thumped me for no good reason, heeling me out onto the floor. Bloody barking! She took a swing at what later became a black eye. This was a first - and would be a last.
Now clothed, I went downstairs as I called for a cab. Emily followed me. She'd calmed down but seemed determined to block my escape through her front door.
"Sit at the kitchen table and talk?" she said.
"What, in a room where there's knives?"
😕
© copyright Russell Cavanagh