I went to a friend’s birthday drinks in Kensington and
arranged to go to this friend’s house around the corner for a drink after. It was a fairly posh birthday ‘do’ in a
posh bar, so I was dressed up.
Out of this world messy, movie star blow dry. The perfect little black dress that
makes my size 10/12 body look like an 8.
Black patent pumps that guarantee at least 3 wolf whistles per
outing. Rudely gorgeous. Rudely.
The Man couldn’t go because of his broken shoulder. It’s a rather long and boring story,
but all to do with his cycling, ahem, not nappy, fetish, sadly not from
swinging from my chandelier while I am whipping him wearing my PVC catsuit.
As the Man was at home with his broken shoulder awaiting
surgery, I could smoke all the little ciggies I wanted and have that 3rd
glass of champagne without entering into a conversation about how unhealthy it
all was.
Around 10:30 I make my goodbyes to the birthday girl and
assorted friends and jumped in a cab (walk around the corner in those heels, er
no!) to head over to my friend’s flat around the corner.
I almost didn’t leave the party because I felt like I should
stay, but something was pulling me to go.
This friend is someone that I have known for close to a year.
He has been a rock for me over the last year. And I love him. Not romantically (yet? cannot possibly
contemplate that at the present time, Jesus), but I love the person that he is.
He has made me so many cups of green tea I have lost
count. He has brought me orange
juice and chicken soup when I have had the flu. He was there with strong still arms the day I came home to
tell the boys their Grandfather was dying. My tears were all over his T-shirt. If there is a problem he is on a
mission to fix it or make it better.
He loves by what he does and I am not sure he even realises it because
he wouldn’t physically know how to be any different to me or anyone else in his
life who he cares about.
As my mamma used to say, there’s people that are beautiful
on the inside and the outside.
I get there and he is at the door waiting. He started to say something and it’s a
blur. I just remember telling him to stop talking, looking at him and then him
taking my face in his hands. Our
legs were trembling, like we’d never kissed anyone before in our lives.
And just like that first French kiss with Bobby over 20
years ago, it was a kiss that makes you believe in the rest of your life. In how wonderful it will be if you just
are brave enough to go out and make it happen.
It was a kiss that makes you realise that you don’t have to
date someone who’s 48 and 3% body fat, but not funny just because you are 38
and have two kids. Because he’s a
good catch. Because he is a CEO.
Because he doesn’t have moobs when most men his age do.
That you don’t have to give up your dreams to live in Ibiza
with your beautiful sons with someone that loves you just the way you are.
Someone that loves your loud laugh.
Someone that will light a cigarette for you (possibly one
for himself).
Someone that will pour you that 3rd glass of
Bollinger.
Someone that is secure enough in himself to know that your
ruthless flirting at a party doesn’t mean a thing because you love him.
Someone that wants to take a sunny Sunday afternoon to get
to know your children better, not go running or cycling instead.
Someone that knows that when you come home from a 14 hour
day when your boss is being a jerk, then you discover the cat’s bladder is
about to explode, a good game of bowling and a beer will make everything ok.
That one kiss the other night (oh sweet Lord in heaven, not
to mention the ones that followed) told me what I’ve known for a while.
The Man loves some of me, not all of me.
And that’s just not good enough.
By Ms. Magnolia
