Bitter Sweet

I think that I might skip entirely past a little stretch of time here and get to something of substance for you. Partly this is because there's not much in the retelling of much of what followed in the next month or so that will really advance your understanding of the dynamics of our relationship - you probably have the general idea by now. In any event, this trawling back through detailed memories is not proving as cathartic as I'd had cause to expect.

  As an exercise it is less akin to drawing the poison and more like salt-rubbing.

  So simply extrapolate from what you have gleaned so far that things progressed well from those early faltering steps and though I recovered a degree of poise and the ability to conduct coherent conversations like a grown man, there was an unmistakable tilt to the scales of the balance of power and not just as a reflection of her state-conferred authority or police training.

  Dates followed. Wine was shared and popcorn, and non-serious arguments were resolved around the eternal Thai/Indian conundrum by one of us feigning a reluctant compromise that might later require reciprocation and gratitude. We sat on the floor and ate pizza and watched a movie that Sally had sworn was a classic from her teenage years and that was almost unbearably terrible but somehow rendered marvellous because of her and double pepperoni. We sat at a table and devoured two bottles of dreadful Cabernet Sauvignon, listening to a roll call of the worst, most clichéd love songs, all of which are now seared into me, key change and bridge and hackneyed chorus all.

  There was a night when I'd been in the pub three hours - which is generally enough to make me into furniture - but then there was a text from Sally about finishing early and was I about, and I was out the door, coat on, beer discarded, inside five minutes. If you knew me better you'd understand the significance of that. Normally, three hours inside a pub and I'm harder to shift than red wine on a cream carpet, or dried in blood.

  There were nights when she woke me up an hour after we'd fallen asleep and we'd, you know. Do that. And then we'd fall asleep and I'd wake up thirsty for a sip of water an hour or so later and I'd wake her and we'd do that again. Like the falling asleep was a mistake, or a pit stop maybe. But that's my stuff and I won't let you see that so if it’s those kinds of details you want then go elsewhere. Or use your imagination. That Sally is my Sally and there's not much of her so I’m not sharing. There isn't enough to go around and if I write it all down then it might all just come out and not go back in again and what little I have I'd like cling to.

  I'm not apologising for that. It's all I've got left.

  And you can stop that too with the pity face. It's my own fucking fault. One day it won't be. One day I'll be smug and satisfied that I got it all right with someone, but you don't want to know about that. Who does really?

  For now, let’s just focus on what we’re all here for: my extraordinary capacity to toss away the winning ticket.

  This is probably a good time to circle back around to my friend Sonny. He was supposed to come to the pub with us all earlier if you remember? He didn't turn up, you may also remember, because that kind of unreliability and flakiness is totally his kind of thing.

  Why are we mates? Ok. Hang on.

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