3 am and the bar is dry…

Some things are true whether you believe ’em or not.

City of Angels

 

I want the posts on here to reflect what ‘we’ were like. No different to most couples I guess.

So, picture the scene. The morning after the night before. Sunday morning sat in bed.

“I would love to write a best seller.”

She had heard this a million times before. She would just roll her eyes.

“Write a book then.”

“About what?”

“Write it all about me.”

The same answer as every other time.

As long as I could remember that was all I wanted to do. Even at the age of 5, books and storytellers fascinated me.

She would throw her arms round me. “But what better subject is there?”

And I would kiss her. I seemed to do that a lot.

“I want to write thrillers.”

“Am I not thrilling enough?”

A sound piece of logic so best to say nothing.

“Think of all the handbags and sunglasses you could buy me. I could lunch with Jude Law and shop all day. Oooh and I would get in Heat Magazine.”

‘Every time’, the same crazy priorities.

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“No you don’t.”

We had been together longer than some people were married.

We were opposites in so many ways. I am six feet tall, dark hair with green, brown eyes. Quiet and fairly shy. She liked the strong silent type, but she did say my eyes were not a proper colour.

I try really hard to look after myself. Don’t drink, don’t smoke. But there was the start of lines around the eyes. And a few flecks of grey at the side. She used to call it my ‘go faster stripe’.

She was five feet tall, with long blond hair and the biggest and bluest eyes. She had perfect teeth, helped by braces when she was younger. She still had the support in the back of the teeth.

She was outgoing and loved to be the centre of attention. I was happy to give that to her. Being Mr Girlfriend was fine.

During the week, when she was working, she never went out and rarely drank. So Friday and Saturday nights she loved to go and party.

But then Sunday morning came along and that was my favourite time of the week. I always woke before her. I would turn on the TV, so quiet I had to put the subtitles on, until she stirred. She would always be hungry and thirsty.

As soon as she woke it would be my job to go to the little sandwich shop next door and get her bagels with cheese, crisps and fruit juice.

We would then sit in bed and I had the pleasure of giving her the lowdown of what happened the night before.

“I’m really tired,” She always looked so washed out in the mornings. Her hair was matted to her face and her make-up didn’t look quite as good as it had done the night before. Think Alice Cooper meets Heath Ledger playing the Joker.

We always intended to get home at a reasonable time, but never did.

And she would always sound surprised by this. “Why didn’t you get me back here earlier?” Like in some way it was my fault it was 3am and she could barely walk and it took 30 minutes to find a key hole and walk up 8 steps

“I think the first time you said we were leaving, it was about midnight. Then you needed a final drink.”

“Oh.”

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