Love Is Blind

The emails read:

‘Looking forward to tonight darling, it will be fab! See you at 7 by the fountain. By the way, we’re seeing Sonia and Steve on Saturday now. Is that alright? I know you wanted to watch that film but we could watch it on Tuesday in the week? If we don’t see them Saturday, I won’t see Sonia until after they come back from Greece. How’s Michael been? Have you spoken to him about more money? Be brave about this honey, you do the work so you need to be paid the wage! Remember, if you get it, we can get that holiday booked! Love you! See you later on. Xoxoxoxoxox’

‘Looking forward to it to, see you at 7. Sonia and Steve thing is fine, happy to reschedule the cinema. Haven’t spoken to Michael yet, might leave it as he seems stressed. I think someone’s leaving and so I’ll see how the land lies. See you later.’

‘As in possible promotion?’

‘As in, he’s frowning a lot and rushing around muttering about unreliable staff.’

‘Make sure you ask him though honey, when you know.’

‘Will do.’

‘Okay babe, see you later! Can’t wait for this food! Been looking at the menu all day! Love yoooouuu. Xoxox’

‘Love you too.’

I didn’t. It’s physically impossible to love a woman who aspired to live in an advert. I used to watch men in town centres following their chubby women, being forced to carry this week’s bags, listening to them talk about nothing. The men always looked uncomfortable in their own clothes, a flat look of uninspired resignation on their faces. Their lives were the lives of her parents. Meeting her friends, buying her desires, working for her recognition, living in her world. I would watch these scenes, feeling that I’d always be immune to this existence as I knew its perils. As a young man I’d hoped for the best of both worlds, intelligence mixed with an artistic appreciation of our own mortality. However, like the men I observed, I’d found a woman who acted like life was something to be taken seriously, demanding that I interact with it and work towards what people value as achievement. We needed to buy the best of everything we could afford, whilst saving the rest in order to buy better versions in the future. No money could be squandered or frittered.

The craziest aspect was the ease at which she was persuaded to interact with this mentality but the impossibility of being dissuaded from it. Through tentative pitches, I had suggested the concept of travel, weekend breaks outside of shopping districts and not taking pictures of restaurant food. These were greeted with confused looks. This was part of her indoctrination process. By ending freedom of thought and surrounding me with her family and friends, she was slowly turning my brain into hers. Although I knew what my former self was like, my impression was becoming more blurred, occasionally discussing her ideas as my own with my real friends and family. I was at a critical stage, able to understand the future and the past. I needed to act.

The emails read:

‘Hey, can I meet you earlier tonight? Before the meal, for a drink?’

‘I thought you wanted to go to the gym? We were only meeting later because of the gym.’

‘Yeah, I’m too tired today.’

‘Okay honey, I’ll see you at six? I’ve got a meeting before.’

‘Yeah, see you then.’

‘xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox’

I met her at the fountain. She looked good, like they always do at the end. After getting into the bar, taking it in turn to take pictures of each other pretending to drink cocktails, we began speaking.

‘So why did you want to meet earlier?’

‘It’s not working Tina.’

‘Sorry? What’s not working? Me and you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you finishing this now?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What the fuck? Why? We’re happy aren’t we? You need to fucking explain this Harry! This is not fair, not fair at all…’

She began crying loudly into the napkin, giving me the eyes of a betrayed child. Those around inhaled the free drama, varying their expressions between compassion and contempt. After the wailing became background noise, I began justifying my exit.

‘Look, honestly, it’s nothing to do with you…’

The words bit her and she snapped back.

‘Nothing to do with me Harry? Pull the fucking other one! What’s changed? If you’re going to break my fucking heart, do it honestly…’

The nose went back in the tissue and the siren wound up again. More disapproval from strangers. I was the Nazi in 1946 desperately looking to at houses in Argentina.  

‘Look, I just think we want different lifestyles. You want us to work on careers, get a house, have kids, go shopping and see mates on the weekend. For me, I don’t want that routine or, at least, I’m not ready for it yet.’

‘That’s your reason? A man who said a month ago that he, ‘can’t wait to marry me’. Why the fuck would you say that?’

‘You want to believe you’re doing the right thing, that you’re leading your life not being led by it.’

‘So you make me believe it?… And what’s so wrong with wanting money and stuff and kids? Is that so crazy and dull to want? To have known the people around you for years, to have great relationships with your friends, to succeed in life, to raise children? To be able to rely on happiness? Why is sacking it off and sitting on a beach, making friends with people you’ll know for a few weeks, doing NOTHING, some sort of enlightenment!?’

‘I know, I don’t know, it’s the risk I want. Not knowing how my next year will be.’

‘You’re twenty-eight Harry! You’re not seventeen. You’re surely not the moron who believes that the life of a hippy is actually rewarding? You’ll regret this! You fucking will! You’re imaging some beach party with loads of tanned men and women, a free spirited slag on your cock and a magical money tree shitting coconuts of cash! Fuck it! I knew you’d fail me! I fucking knew it! You’re a prick!’

‘I’m sorry! It’s not for me! I’m sorry I don’t want to have a girlfriend who values money over enjoying your job, who just wants to buy bullshit, who’s given up at the age of twenty-seven using the phrase ‘fab’ and ‘honey’ like her fucking mum!’

Although we hadn’t agreed the rules, both knew that I was not allowed to go on the offensive. That was known. She didn’t deserve the abuse and it started to feel like I didn’t deserve her which made me want her. Throwing the contents of her drink over my face, she made her exit. I was left to deal with the cocktail stains and the bad feeling from the audience.

Although this sounds clichéd and made-up, I was genuinely in Florence a few years later, stood on the top of the Duomo looking at the view. I was with a girl who was a lot closer to the ideal. Next to us an engaged couple argued vehemently about their ideas. She was annoyed that he hadn’t helped a child who had fallen over. The man had apparently walked over the child’s body. He was arguing that this did not show a lack of compassion and, in fact, was a result of him having to dodge walking on the child as he hadn’t noticed the fall until late on. She argued that, if this was the case, he should have turned around and picked the child up. He argued that the child’s parents were there by then. It was heated nonsense, both parties were anguished that they had to explain the obvious to the person they should love. I watched this couple’s veins swell and minds grab at each other’s words. They focussed on unpicking each other’s argument, hoping that there was a common reading of the moral code.

The argument ended with the woman’s declaration that she’d see him in the evening and that they both needed time to cool off. I knew they’d be having that conversation which incinerated all the progress and plans they’d made. It made me think back to her in the bar and all of the reasons that existed to stop the pretence and send love packing. The girl I was with naively discussed how we’d never get to that stage and I agreed, not yet able to think of a reason.