|It ended last night. Not that it ever really started I suppose. I cried for the first time in ages, and for only the second time over a woman. I never cried over Aileen or Jane (well maybe once over Jane, but that was the alcohol talking). I cried when I left Maria, boarded a jet plane and went back home. Now that is an interesting saga, five years in the making, but it's not what I'm talking about now. Yesterday was the passing of another phase in my life. Hopefully I have learnt something from the whole episode, but more than likely I am destined to make the same mistakes over again.|
So here I am, Saturday afternoon, three hours before work time again, and nursing a sore head. I was going to have a quiet beer before work, but there was none in the house and I wasn't going down to The Empire to get any, I'll spend more than enough hours in there tonight. So I'm having my third coffee instead. There are also no cigarettes in the house, which is probably a good thing. Maybe I'll quit again. I know that as soon as I step into the smokey bar atmosphere tonight I'll be craving one. I bet myself that I can't go through the night without buying a packet. The Counting Crows are playing on the stereo, the beautiful colours, blue and red and black and grey. How hard is it to find music that doesn't remind you of a certain time in your life ? I was going to put on an old Cranberries album, but then I thought of Jane, that was years ago now. I looked at the Trainspotting soundtrack, again memories of time with Aileen sprang to mind. (I'm not bisted and twitter over that one at all) I put Massive Attack on for about half a song, which of course recalled images of Libby, damn I wish I knew what the hell was happened there. So I settled on the Crows for background sounds. The two new CD's I bought yesterday, Paul Kelly's new one and The Whitlams, are just a little too close to home at the moment. I've been giving them a fair flogging most of the morning anyway.
Anyway, it's time to write a few things down. Why ? I'm not sure, but it seems like a good idea and just maybe it will help me to remember.
Yesterday was Hilary's last day at work. She is off to Melbourne for a week and then to New Zealand, the U.S., then finally back home to Ireland for Christmas. I've only known Browney for about four months, just since I started contracting at the bank. It's been a wild ride for four months. How am I going to describe our relationship? Strange. Platonic. Firey. Stormy. Trusting. Friendship. For some reason Hilary is one of those people I just connected with straight away. We both laugh a lot. We both have issues in our life that need sorting out, which we often talked about. I sometimes don't know which way is up or down and the Libby thing isn't helping the situation at all. Hilary is going home to a relationship she wants to end but doesn't know how and a family that expects her to settle down now and have a career, family, etc. She told me that the two of us would never work out, there were just too many obstacles. Her family was Catholic and I'm a Proddy. What the hell difference does that make these days ? Obviously in Ireland it does. Apparently one of her brother's is a Priest. (Careful with the jokes that spring to mind) She tells me that she could never live permanently anywhere but Ireland. Wants her own family, if she has one, to be brought up as Irish in Ireland. Dammit, I'd probably find it pretty hard to live the rest of my life in a cold, wet place like that. I love my wide open spaces and hot summers far too much. But, having said that, for the right person it wouldn't matter where I lived.
So anyway last night was Browney's farewell. We all went out drinking after work at the Forbes, on the corner. Late into the night it was just Hilary and I left. I have to admit I was pretty drunk, but sometimes that's the best way to handle these situations. I told her how I honestly felt, told her all the things that I have been meaning to say for a while now, those little things you feel that usually never come out, that just get bottled up inside. A few beers seem to make it easier to say them. So say them I did. I asked her to stay and not go home, stay in Australia I mean. I told her how strong my feelings where for her. I told her that I was sorry for the games. I told her that I was sorry I didn't make some realisations sooner. I told her that now, finally, when I opened my eyes and saw what was right infront of me that it was all a case of too little too late. I told her that I'd give it all up for her. She told me that she had wanted to be with me for a long time. She told me that I had broken her heart. She told me that she loved me. She told me that she was sorry, but it was too late.
Then I walked away.
She found me a little later, back in the office, Level 13, at my desk, crying. We kissed and held each other for a long time. She had tears in her eyes. She left. I slept at my desk.
My mobile phone woke me this morning, still on the floor under my desk. My head was killing me. It was Hilary. She wanted to make sure I was allright. She wanted say she was sorry. I asked what for. She was sorry about last night. She was sorry about so many things. Sorry that I didn't see what was there for the world to see, until it was too late. Sorry that for four months I seemed to feel the need to play games with her. Sorry that she didn't just taken the initiative earlier. Sorry that she was going home so soon. Sorry that she meant everything that was said last night. I said goodbye Browney, hung up, put my helmet on, which stopped the throbbing in my temples, but not the mist covering my eyes, and rode home.
Once, six years ago, I left someone at an airport, on another continent, while I flew home. Now it's my turn. Deal with it.