Read Online Sex with the Ex by Tyne O’Connell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tyne O’Connell
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lovely.
âWhich ones do you feel most passionately about?â he had asked.
Passionately? I was only five, for heavenâs sake, but I tried my best to decide where my passions lay, as I could tell he was getting impatient. I mean the buckles were very shiny but I could tie my laces. A skill I was desperate to show off.
Try as I might, I couldnât decide, so Martin decided for me.
Buckles.
Of course, I was a laughingstock for the whole term, not that Kitty or Martin noticed, they were too busy embarking on their first breakup.
Decisions are traumatic. Of course, Kitty puts it down to passion. If you were really passionate about those buckles you wouldnât have minded what the other children thought, she always says if I bring up the subject. I donât mean to bring it up, but weekend visits home take it out of me. By Sunday Iâm not fully compos mentis.
Richard and I did agree to divorce but I wonder if it was really a decision or merely a resignation to our unhappiness about his companyâs collapse? Was it the buckle-and-lace issue all over again?
Maybe I could have done more. I mean, is passion everything? Or was I like those middle-aged men who trade theirwives in for a younger, more fertile model? Marriage is, after all, meant to be forever, for better or worse. Had we simply fallen at the first hurdle and not bothered to pick one another up and press on into the future?
âI rang him after I went home the other night,â I admitted in a whisper.
âYou what?â Clemmie shrieked, which caught the attention of the surly waitress.
âLook, Clemmie, Iâm worried I might have made the biggest mistake of my life!â I explained quietly, trying to impress on her the gravity of my trauma. As a redhead she was very prone to becoming excitable at the slightest provocation.
But then she seemed to shrug off her shock and calm down. âCreative people worry more because theyâre more imaginative,â she mused as she broke a chunk off her muffin and dunked it into her latte. Clemmie can eat muffins until the cows come home but she never puts on a pound. I watched enviously, feeling peeved that she didnât seem to be taking my dilemma seriously.
So I flung myself into another conversation and that was the end of that. Richard wasnât mentioned by either of us again. We paid our bill and left.
Â
Later that evening over drinks we met up with another friend, Josie, who is blissfully married. We rarely see her now even though sheâs desperate not to behave like a smug married and is always trying to make light of the fact that being married to the man of her dreams is a bit of a bore. She and Emmanuel had dated during high school, hadnât seen each other for years and then theyâd bumped into one another at some art biennial that Clemmie had dragged her to last year and wham, suddenly they realized they weremade for each other all along. Just like me and Richard, maybe? I thought to myself, sticking my hand in Jeanâs bag to give her ears a little tickle.
âYou make poor Emmanuel sound like your jailer,â Clemmie said as she tipped some more champagne into Josieâs glass. I was sticking to water as I was still officially working. David Bowie was holding a party at the club and it was my job to make sure things went smoothly. Itâs weird being an events organizer, people imagine it must be ever so glamorous handling parties for celebrities, but most of the time your head is on the line and youâre so worried about something going wrong that you forget youâre making Robbieâs or Kylieâs or Kateâs night one to remember.
Also, things do go wrong. Always. The host invites twice as many people as arranged and the venue canât accommodate them. Their assistant does a strop over the guest list and, letâs face it, you canât force guests to go to a party. With the best DJ, best goodie bags and
âWhich ones do you feel most passionately about?â he had asked.
Passionately? I was only five, for heavenâs sake, but I tried my best to decide where my passions lay, as I could tell he was getting impatient. I mean the buckles were very shiny but I could tie my laces. A skill I was desperate to show off.
Try as I might, I couldnât decide, so Martin decided for me.
Buckles.
Of course, I was a laughingstock for the whole term, not that Kitty or Martin noticed, they were too busy embarking on their first breakup.
Decisions are traumatic. Of course, Kitty puts it down to passion. If you were really passionate about those buckles you wouldnât have minded what the other children thought, she always says if I bring up the subject. I donât mean to bring it up, but weekend visits home take it out of me. By Sunday Iâm not fully compos mentis.
Richard and I did agree to divorce but I wonder if it was really a decision or merely a resignation to our unhappiness about his companyâs collapse? Was it the buckle-and-lace issue all over again?
Maybe I could have done more. I mean, is passion everything? Or was I like those middle-aged men who trade theirwives in for a younger, more fertile model? Marriage is, after all, meant to be forever, for better or worse. Had we simply fallen at the first hurdle and not bothered to pick one another up and press on into the future?
âI rang him after I went home the other night,â I admitted in a whisper.
âYou what?â Clemmie shrieked, which caught the attention of the surly waitress.
âLook, Clemmie, Iâm worried I might have made the biggest mistake of my life!â I explained quietly, trying to impress on her the gravity of my trauma. As a redhead she was very prone to becoming excitable at the slightest provocation.
But then she seemed to shrug off her shock and calm down. âCreative people worry more because theyâre more imaginative,â she mused as she broke a chunk off her muffin and dunked it into her latte. Clemmie can eat muffins until the cows come home but she never puts on a pound. I watched enviously, feeling peeved that she didnât seem to be taking my dilemma seriously.
So I flung myself into another conversation and that was the end of that. Richard wasnât mentioned by either of us again. We paid our bill and left.
Â
Later that evening over drinks we met up with another friend, Josie, who is blissfully married. We rarely see her now even though sheâs desperate not to behave like a smug married and is always trying to make light of the fact that being married to the man of her dreams is a bit of a bore. She and Emmanuel had dated during high school, hadnât seen each other for years and then theyâd bumped into one another at some art biennial that Clemmie had dragged her to last year and wham, suddenly they realized they weremade for each other all along. Just like me and Richard, maybe? I thought to myself, sticking my hand in Jeanâs bag to give her ears a little tickle.
âYou make poor Emmanuel sound like your jailer,â Clemmie said as she tipped some more champagne into Josieâs glass. I was sticking to water as I was still officially working. David Bowie was holding a party at the club and it was my job to make sure things went smoothly. Itâs weird being an events organizer, people imagine it must be ever so glamorous handling parties for celebrities, but most of the time your head is on the line and youâre so worried about something going wrong that you forget youâre making Robbieâs or Kylieâs or Kateâs night one to remember.
Also, things do go wrong. Always. The host invites twice as many people as arranged and the venue canât accommodate them. Their assistant does a strop over the guest list and, letâs face it, you canât force guests to go to a party. With the best DJ, best goodie bags and
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