The Man of My Dreams

If she doesn't turn down that fucking television, I'm not gonna lie, I won't be pretty!

I'm getting up out of me fouton to take skin of her when I open up her door and she's there, head to toe in the stuff: her tears.

That wailing wasn't something from a DVD but it was her.

"Il m'a brisé le coeur et il m'a appelé....', she explained, "il était avec quelqu'un d'autre...".

"Fair enough", I said, "but can ya keep it down love..."

No, I didn't say that. I didn't know what to say. Even if she was speaking in Frog there's only one thing that I could give her that she would understand: a hug. I tried doing one of my Jim hugs, convinced she'd be putty in my hands, I'd say a few words, agree, disagree, give direction and maybe, just maybe, even tell a joke.

She wasn't having any of it! She started telling me everything: that he left her in July, that he moved away and despite the fact that it's only been a week since they last spoke to each other she knew that there was something wrong. They speak regularly, apparently. They have the bang bang regulary too in the room next door to me but you don't see me covered in snot and tears now do ya? Ha?

"Ca fait une semaine qu'il ne m'a pas appellé... on se disputait le derniere fois mais..." The tears were there again. She wailed over to her mirror (my room doesnt have a mirror, or a tap... is... is that a fucking vent??... I digress...) and what I thought was pretty strange is that she stared at herself crying. We've all done it at some point. There's a sense of achievement, a one-upper-ness on the other in seeeing the tears come down on our blotchy faces. You curse every last one of them, promise that they're going to be the last. You know what he's done, how he's done it and maybe even the why but you don't want to understand why... Poor her, I suppose. Poor her and her... is that a couch she has here in her bedroom that she's sitting on? Christ above...

The more that she talked about her ex boyfriend, how he broke her heart she said some things that I haven't heard since I had a tv with an English channel on it. She spoke of how he was the man of not only her dreams but he was her "l'homme de vie" and there was nothing that could heal or calm her now that he was gone. She wants someone that will be there for her because he wants to be. She wants what every single person out there wants - preaching to the choir, ma sister, you preaching to the choir!

Now I realise that both of us have a lot in common. We don't just share a passion for wine, she might know how to drink it professionally but I know how to drink it fast. We might share a passion for food, I may know how to eat it but she knows how to eat it fast - bitch owes me a mortgage payment in Rennies but anyways... But we have a passion: finding the man. She knew how to get him and I haven't a clue how how to even begin to get mine. Four years it took and her heart's in bits. Four years. Christ, it's been that long since I've had anything steady. Christ above...

She has had someone 'by her side' for near on eight years now and this was the one - she found him. He was hers, 50/50, straight down the line there was nothing that could... "il était avec quequ'un d'autre"...

Her hair is shocking bad tonight but that's because it's full of snot. She's complaining of the cold even though she's got a winter gale hopping in her opened Velux window. And now she's a broken heart that I don't know how to fix. There's a conversation to be had between the two of us yet about her boy, Julian. I'm hesitant to say that we could share the converstaion over a bottle of white but unless we can both provide proof of purchase of the wine, her heart and her boy are going to have to wait until another night.

As for me, my heart and my imaginary boyfriend... "ca va aller"...