My mind harks back to when our love flourished like dead aloe vera. Our love was tinged by the smell of palmers cocoa butter oil, joop, and Kylie Minogue’s light years. Those were the days when the mere suggestion of eastern euopean fags that smelt of burning tyres and virgin trains cappucino would signify great intent. I would tremor at the mere sight of Richard Branson and the sock shop and paperchase stationary would excite and delight like a bagel cooked in the microwave. Halcyon days. Days where you hoped an egg would never end, and when the ground beneath your feet felt like a mixture of cement, gravel and occasionally, dog turds.
You stole my affections like a turd burglar from a man with many pockets in his coat and the habit of wetting the bed.
And now I look at the manure farmer and the feathery Cs of his downcast, beautiful eyes in a haze of cheap chardonnay. About this time of night, Francois, we’d be chewing on a coconut and glowering at each other, resentful of why we weren’t garnering more appreciation from each other, ready to rip out each other’s gizzards for telling each other the same old stories with the same old arguments, like a couple of angry duvets. And our down was bunched up at opposite ends of the linen square.
“Why can’t you lo0k more pleased to see me?” I would snarl.
It was hard to speak normally with a muzzle on.
“I am pleased to see you” you would drawl. I never understood why you’d have to sketch your responses to my bad moods.
An uneasy ceasefire would then begin. I don’t know why Francois would insist on dining at ‘The Beirut bar and grill’.
Then we’d walk home. I’d lag 5 meters behind. It was really important to insulate pipes, especially as fuel costs are rocketing. Francois was so wasteful. Once he sprayed a whole can of febreze just on one pillow case.
Then the paradoxical communication would begin. Triangles everywhere. An air of unfairness and injustice hung in the air, like a pair of Hitler’s wet undergarments after he’d walked home in the rain after his Zumba class. It stank the room out. Or was that all the dishes in the sink? Or the overflowing bin. It became so hard to tell whether the stench was from the decay in the house, or the decay in our relationship.