The thing I miss about my inappropriate fling with The Plumber is that head-spinning, cartwheel-turning, Yay-Abba’s-playing-on-the-dance-floor! feeling of being alive. That, and the ping of the texts, which signalled that there was a man out there thinking about me.
For the short time we were together each week, there was no death, no sadness, no past, no future – just the moment. And I allowed myself to get caught up in it. I pushed thoughts of M out and focussed on the tattooed chest before me. And since the current focal point of my life is death, I’ll admit it was irresistible.
Of course, as soon as he walked out the door the self-loathing kicked back in, but it was worth it for that moment of emotional and physical reprieve.
My counsellor talks about ‘safety behaviours’ – the tactics we employ to preserve our sanity in times of trial. The Plumber was one such behaviour, despite being (paradoxically) unsafe. Wine, I suppose, is another. Not talking about M is another, which is why writing about Him is my salvation. All emotional fire curtains.
What will happen when the fire curtains lift though? They are threadbare as it is, but what theatre will their removal reveal?
Shit. Anyone know any builders?