Ex Sex

So I was back in his kitchen with the promise of G&Ts. It had been recently refurbished and he moved smoothly around it, filling my glass with ice from a brand new American sized, ice dispensing fridge. We spent the entire night at the breakfast bar, propped up on barstools. I stroked the black marble work surface, drawing pictures with the condensation from my glass. He sat there watching, mesmerised.

We talked non-stop, but he thankfully never spoke of how I broke his heart. We just talked about the present – the situation we now found ourselves in. I’d been missing his company and longing to see him, even though he irritated me like hell. He had been a constant in a reckless two years. Even when he was out of sight and across the country, he was still my comfort, despite our string of affairs. I wasn’t in love with him. I never had been. The lack of love was what made being with him easy. He could never hurt me but I could always rely on him to save me from my own pain. He could always temporarily relieve me from my thoughts.

All night we flirted, as if on a first date – both unaware of each other’s barriers. All the time we were drinking ourselves into a dream. We weren’t what each other needed but the idea of familiarity was beckoning. We were slowly erasing the bad times and drawing ourselves an idealistic view.

My hands gripped in his, he said with an indecent grin, “We could have a secret affair. Wouldn’t it be exciting?” I laughed and agreed, assuming he was joking. It was the most fucking ridiculous of notions.

However, several more drinks later and we were back in well-known territory. Sex had always prevailed in our relationship.

It was several days later when he rang me, that I realised the damage. He giddily talked about the night and when he’d see me again. Until then I hadn’t regretted a thing. Breaking his heart for a second time had not been my intention.