It was the best session we'd ever had... that day the designs we'd painted on each other were at their most vibrant.  I think it was a combination of factors.  The joy of the season.  It was almost Christmas.  As it approached it got harder for Cort and I to steal time together, so it made what little we could manage that much sweeter.  There was the eroticism element of the mehndi, certainly.  An excitement born of tracing the exotic foreign markings we'd put on each other's flesh.  Which carried with it a sense of the taboo as well as the simple thrill of discovery.  We'd changed our outward coverings.  Funny how in all of that I'd forgotten that a leopard really can't change its spots.  Nor can a moody Rubenesque girl from Tilbury, apparently. 

But I'm getting ahead of myself again.  The sex.  It was bloody brilliant.  It was that kind of wild physical sex when all a woman wants is to feel hands holding her tight and the hard juddering force of a man's thrusts as he pounds away between her legs.  That kind of sex where you're almost fighting each other.  Where it's so good, so intense and primal that orgasm almost becomes secondary to the satisfying act of receiving penetration. 

The trickle of sweat.  The feel of his hips cradling your arse as you ride him.  The slap of moist bodies.  Mewls and sighs and grunts.  Hands curled into fists.  A bottom lip bitten.  That sharp hollow ache a woman experiences that can only be satisfied by the feel of a man moving hard between her open legs.  Thrusts that go so deep the pleasure burns up your nerves, screaming along that invisible cord between cunt and nipples and then clawing into your brain until all you can do is lay there and pant as he shoves into you hard those last few times.  Surrender.  Absolution.  Instinct.  Lost in that place where you exist in your most primal physical state.  Male and female energy struggling together as they have done since the beginning of time.

However, that is quite a world away from that most finely wrought feeling of all.  The one that makes your heart glow and inspires rapturous sonnets and wild flights of fancy where you take a chance and risk it all just for a shot at touching real love.  Even if it's only brushing it as you fall back to Earth.

Sometimes it's so bloody hard not to just see what you want to see.  Especially for a voyeur like me who sees everything.  I reckon it was just easier listen to the blood roaring in my ears than that little voice in my head whispering to me that Cort was a man nursing a broken heart long before he knocked on my door.  It was easier to lose myself in the sensual delights I hadn't felt in so long than to stop and think.  It was easier to listen to what he did say than focus on what he didn't.

There were no words of love.  None of those nights where you whisper your heart's secrets into each other's ears.  Oh, the Earth moved plenty of times.... but the same can't be said of our souls.  We'd spoken intimately, but in that way that doesn't ever give the other person pieces of your private self. 

It was hard to make sense of it all.  My feelings were all hopelessly tangled up with my physical needs.  With my emotional needs too.  I freely admit that it was bloody good to bask in the glow of a man's presence.  To share a space charged with his masculinity.  Big hands wrapped around a delicate teacup.  Walking into the loo to find the bog seat left up.  Feeling the peaceful sleep that only ever comes lulled by the easy rhythm of a man's breath and the lub-dub of his heartbeat.  Long hairy legs and rough toes and crude jokes about bodily functions.  Stale semen trickling from between my legs when I first stood in the morning.  Setting a table for two.  Eating a cold dinner at midnight cos the pair of us never made it to the kitchen at all.  The welcome foreignness of a male perspective.  The sound of his orgasm.  The sound of mine.  Human contact. 

I think I've lived too long with just my cats for company.  And just the taste of a man in my life made it so hard to think about how empty my flat--and my life--would be when it was all over.  See, that's really the danger of it all.  The thing that had kept me from the pub for so long in the beginning.  I was afraid of change.  Afraid they wouldn't like me.  Afraid I have to take a closer look at my life.  Afraid I'd have to change.

And I have.  I've given up smoking and food... and the comfort of my sofa for runs with Jeff.  My hair has changed.  My body too.  Oh, I still struggle with smoking and food and working out.... but I'm not the same person I was six months ago.  And the real truth is I'm not sure I can go back to being that person who lived her life with her nose pressed to the glass of her window, watching the world pass by without ever being a part of it.  It's like I've woken up after a long sleep.  Come alive again..... and now another change is coming and I'm not sure what to do.

I've changed on the inside too.  What I found with Cort wasn't just a fling.  I respect him.  Like him.  Am attracted to him.  He's a good mate and a good friend.  He helped me regain confidence in myself.  Showed me what it was like to see myself through a man's eyes.  He made me feel beautiful, even while being with him only inspired me to run harder and eat less... and now that everything's slipping away, I can feel all those old insecurities creeping back in.  Stranger still, they are somehow comforting even though I'm terrified my life will return to the dreary dusty existence it was before.

It was just after Christmas when everything started to change.  The death of a relationship.  Only that makes it sound dramatic when it was really anything but remarkable.  It was more in the piling up of little things.  I had spent Christmas day with my family, just the usual affair.  My stepdad gets bombed.  Mum overcooks the goose in the wake of one of my cousin's babies screaming through Midnight Mass.  When I got back, Cort seemed... different.

I helped him at the centre with a party for the children.  That night we made love in the darkness.  Hardly spoke a word.  He was wearing a new cross; a wooden one.  It was beautiful.  I touched it, and still muzzyheaded from the endorphin rush after our session, I made the mistake of asking where he got it.  I thought maybe one of the guys down the pub or someone from work or one of the kids from the centre.  He just shrugged and said 'an old friend' gave it to him.  I should have known then.  He wasn't defensive or dishonest or unkind.  But it was the first night he kissed me goodbye and went home instead of sleeping curled up with me.

I don't think he meant to be deceptive.  He's an honourable man.  One of the finest I know, to tell the truth.  I honestly think he really was busy at the centre in the days that followed.  He called less frequently.  I put it down to his busy work schedule.  Every morning in the shower, passing my fingers over the designs on my skin got harder as they started to fade.  It felt like I was washing away something important.  A connection, maybe.  We started bumping into each other at the pub on accident rather than as a set up so we could make a quick escape after a drink or two and flit over to my flat. 

I wasn't sure what to do.  Part of me wanted to throw myself at him.  Use every trick in the book to hold him to me.  Sex.  Food.  Presents.  Something I'm ashamed to say I know a fair bit about.  You know my track record with men.  I always pick the wrong ones.  And for some reason, I have the hardest time giving them up, even when I know we're all wrong for me.  I've hung on to some real losers in the past.  Only Cort wasn't a loser.  And for the first time in my life, I had enough self worth not to behave so poorly.  Which certainly says (to me anyway) that whatever Cort and I had, it was more than a meaningless fling.  How often in life can you say without a doubt, 'Knowing you changed me for the better.'?

Still the days passed and the little things kept adding up.  A waterfall begins with a single droplet, hey?  New Year's Eve.  Cort and I had already decided not to arrive together.  Neither of us were keen on doing anything that might appear as some public acknowledgement of 'coupledom'.  We hadn't wanted that in the beginning- and it was especially true at.... well, I can say it... at the end.  It was Cort I kissed at midnight.  But it was Bou he watched as we left.

I don't mean to say he treated me badly.  He didn't.  He was kind, if a bit distant, and he still held me in the dark with almost what seemed like desperation.  The last time we made love was on a Wednesday.  It wasn't particularly remarkable.  He was more tender than he'd ever been with me.  I think now it was his way of saying goodbye.  A way of making a nice memory.  And of putting a definitive end on something, even if he hadn't quite worked out in his head yet.  I cried after he left.  Watching from my window, I saw him look back toward the pub, toward her... instead of looking up at my window like he used to do. 

The glass was cold on my palms.  How many nights had I prayed for what I was watching walk away?  Funny how a heart can hold on to that hope, even when you think nobody hears your prayers.  Even when you don't understand them yourself.  And I couldn't fool myself forever.  I had known from the beginning that Cort was nursing a broken heart.  Maybe we were both giving each other something we needed during those few weeks.  I know it's foolish, but I like to think we were.  To think maybe I gave him back a little of what he gave me.

I knew he loved her.  I think maybe I knew he loved her still.  After what he gave me, what kind of mate would I be... hell, what kind of person would I be if I knowingly stood in the way of that?  Didn't he deserve more?  Didn't I?  Didn't she?  Hell, don't we all?

Now don't go fooling yourselves into thinking I'm selfless or that it was an easy decision for me.  It took me a whole day to get up the guts to tell him.  And I was too chicken to take a cab over to his place, knowing the death of my dreams was waiting for me at the end of that ride.  I walked instead.  It took an hour.  It was bitter cold and it gave me a lot of time to think.  In my hands, I worried a little packet of the special blend of tea we'd shared once.  My own way of saying goodbye and putting an end on things, I reckon. 

I was sad, but I think I stumbled over a few home truths while I was stumbling over the snow covered ground.  Why had I never noticed how much he let me talk while sharing so little in return?  Why had we never stayed over at his place?  Why had he never left anything of himself at my place?  Not a razor.  Not a change of clothes.  Nothing.  For God's sake, Jeff has a bigger presence in my flat than Cort did.  There's even a bottle of his aftershave in the cupboard by the shower. 

He and Paul stay over in my spare room now and again when we've had a nice dinner and a long natter over a few bottles of wine.  They're good fun.  Good mates too.  Not to mention lying in my bed and listening to two men make love is exciting.  The grunts and sighs.  The crude talk- and the laughter.  I reckon it's the taboo of it... (to say nothing of the erotic mental image) but it's also somehow comforting.  They're in love and it feels good to hear that.  Existing at the edge of it, sharing it in my own interminable way, gives me a strange sort of hope.                   

I was a swirl of emotions by the time I got to Cort's place.  And for once, I wish I'd been a bit more myself.  My usual voyeuristic tendencies would have saved us all a heap of grief if I'd just been paying attention.... but I wasn't.  I was staring at my feet, not his porch.  I didn't realise he wasn't alone until it was too late.  He was talking to Bou.  I froze, suddenly feeling horribly uncomfortable.  Despite the cold weather, I felt a rush of heat and the prickle of sweat under my coat.  I was suddenly too hot.  Fluttery.

They were on the verge of going inside and both of them looked uncomfortable.  Well, good!  Was my first thought.  Uncharitable of me, I know.  She was saying how she'd wanted to tell him something but when she came back from Zermatt that he looked so happy and at peace.  I am ashamed to say I felt a glimmer of satisfaction at that.  He was happy then.  I was too.  And then he went and opened his bloody fat mouth....

"Happy? At peace? I got laid, Bou... uncomplicated, enjoyable, mutually beneficial sexual release... that is not exactly the same thing... although I sometimes wish it was enough. Strikes me that if I could just live like that, then maybe I wouldn't be so haunted all the time. You neither..." 

He ushered her inside.  I felt something go out inside me, snuffed by a thousand jagged shards splintering through my innards.  It hurt to breathe.  I remember clawing at my throat, ripping away my scarf.  It was the blue one he'd taken from me once upon a time.  Wrapping it round the bag of tea I'd brought, I threw them both in the nearest rubbish bin.  My hands trembled violently and I got hotter and hotter.  That shaky fluttery feeling became acute.  Like a bad trip.  It hurt so much I wanted to climb out of my own skin.  Which only made me think of the marks he'd left on it.  Every single one of them burned.  For one irrational moment, I wished I could cut them out.  I think it would have been less painful than what I was feeling on the inside. 

Then I wondered about the marks I'd put on his skin.  The henna would be faded by now... but probably still visible.  Wonder what she will make of them?  I felt a surge of something ugly.  I suddenly hoped they weren't too faint for her to notice.  With shame, I can remember thinking I hoped seeing it hurt them both as much as I was hurting just then.  But I knew it wouldn't.  I saw how they looked at each other.  I bet neither of them even notice a bloody thing except each other.  Which only made the irrational anger burn brighter.

It was a really awful thing to think, I know.  Bou is a lovely woman.  Bright.  Funny.  Dry as Hell.  And if all that other stuff wasn't enough, some little part of me knew that she had to be an extraordinary person as well.  She wouldn't be The One for Cort unless she was.  But that night, I hated every last thing about her.  And I hated Cort more.  Mostly because what he said was true.

That doesn't make it hurt any less though.  I'm no fool.  I know most relationships anyone has these days aren't the grand love affair of their life.  Most of them are just stops along the way while you're looking for that special someone.  But as I stumbled away that cold snowy night, all I could think of was how bloody unfair life was.  He was the first man I trusted in so long and here I was, betrayed again.  My rational mind knew that he hadn't said what he'd said to hurt me.  It was the truth and he was just being a man, explaining things poorly as men do when they're flustered and uneasy.  But the real bitch of listening to your rational mind at a time like that is that it offers up all the ugly truths.

And the real truth here was incredibly painful.  He chose a poor way to say it, but just what was the real message there?  Well, I'll bloody tell you cos it's doing nothing but echoing in my brain, over and over.  Sure you're good, Es.  But not good enough.  Not special.

Dashing away the tears, I stumbled into the nearest corner shop and bought a packet of my favourite brand and a lighter.  Back outside, my hand shook so badly I almost couldn't get the bloody fag lit.  The first drag was awful.  I coughed.  How long had it been since I smoked?  The second was better.  By the third, I was feeling the buzz of the nicotine.  It wasn't enough.  Part of me wanted to feed the pain.  Buy a cheesecake.  Comfort food to fill up that empty place inside me.

I won't lie.  It wasn't any noble iron power of will that kept me from doing exactly that.  It was the knowledge that even chocolate wouldn't be enough.  This wasn't the kind of pain you could soothe with food.  I would have bought a bottle when I bought my fags but then what?  Take it home where the memories of him were so strong?  The chaise where we first made love in front of the mirror?  The shower?  The bed?  The couch?  Maybe the rug were we painted each other with henna that evening?  I couldn't stand to be reminded of any of it.  It just hurt too much.  I bloody hate men.  They ruin everything.

I walked into the first pub I found.  One where I could be anonymous.  The Fleece and Firkin.  The sign said 'Serves the best firkin drinks in town.'  Perfect.  The regulars gave me the odd look, like most regulars do when a stranger blows in- but I didn't care one jot.  I sat down and ordered up a vodka double.  Chosen for a few good reasons.  One, I'd never had vodka with Cort.  And two, I wanted something as cold as that feeling inside my chest. 

So I sat and drank.  Nobody bothered me.  And why would they?  Nobody wants a girl like me.  While I waited for the numbness to set in, I tortured myself with images of them.  Was he fucking her yet?  Hope you like the marks I put on your man, love.  Cheers... from nobody special. 

I was bloody awful.  But I was hurting enough then not to care.  And drunk enough to conveniently forget I hadn't ever been in love with Cort.  What made it all so much worse was that Cort hadn't ever really done anything wrong, besides phrase the truth badly.  I still respected him.  He was still a good man.  Even if he was, at that moment, the target of my much deserved ire.  I didn't even have the luxury of hating him.  Which really made it all so much worse.  I ordered another double. 

The barkeep set it down.  "What we drinking to tonight, luv?"

"Tonight?"  I laughed.  It was brittle and hard and about two drinks away from hitching sobs.  "Mate, tonight we're drinking to the tried and true."  He gave me a look.  I raised my glass.  "To nobody special." 

So much for being clever.  I reckon he's heard it all before.  He just patted my hand and asked who he should ring to come collect me later.  Bless him.  I don't remember much past scratching down a number.  After that it's all pretty much a big, painful Stoli-flavoured blur. 

The next thing I remember is Jeff holding my head and that horrible burning feeling when you vomit.  At least I recognised the loo.  When did we get back to my flat?

"That's it, luv.  Get it all up...." He was rubbing my back.  I wanted to shout at him to bugger off and leave me alone, except I was too busy heaving.  He was nattering on.  I wanted to throttle him.  "Come on now... take pity on your old mate Jeff.... He does toilets- not floors... and if I put you to bed and you chunder your guts up-"  I laughed weakly.  It was a mistake.  I choked as the vomit came out my nose.  Too graphic for you?  Too bloody bad.  Everyone knows the death of a relationship isn't pretty.  And this was no exception.

The next memory I had was of being washed like when I was little girl and Mum did it for me.  Sitting in the tub.  A warm cloth.  Soft hands.  Water tested to be sure it wasn't too hot.  I remember trying to hide the henna on my breast but my arms wouldn't cooperate.  I think that's when I started crying.  Who knows what I told Jeff.  I'm sure it was probably more than he ever wanted to know about me and my pathetic love life.  Sex life, I mean.  It wasn't ever really love, was it?  That just made me cry harder. 

Why do we always do that?  Hold it together and then fall apart when we're someplace safe.  Funny that it would be in a poofter's arms.  Jeff is the best mate I've ever had.  I can remember telling him I loved him as he tucked me in and curled up with me.  He just kept patting me like a little girl.

"I know you do.  You're my best girl.  You have to love me."  

"No!  I mean I really do."  I blubbered into his shirt, held there safe in his big strong arms, like some bulwark; a shield against the world that I could retreat behind and let down my own pathetic defenses. 

He just rocked me.  "I love you too, Em.  I know you're hurting now... just give it time.  You'll see.  It'll be all right."  

Give it time?  That I could do.  In fact, I planned on giving it pretty much forever.  I was done with men.  Grabbed at the last star belonging to someone else.  Finished dreaming about ever being The One for some man who'd never think of me the same way. 

Jeff sensed my black mood and tried to lighten it.  Asked me if I wanted him to go over and take a pipe to Cort's head.  I told him not to be crude.  Or at least I thought it.  Pretty impressive considering how much I'd had to drink.  Still, I could feel myself sinking down.  Blacker and blacker.            

I've never really been one to feel sorry for myself.  I accept responsibility for my own faults.  I always have.  But something moved in me that night.  Something deep.  Rage, I think.  Hurt and anger lit a fire in me so bright.  I'll show them.  I'll show them all. 

I had one of the worst hangovers in my life when I woke up the following morning.  Jeff was snoring away on his face on the other side of the bed.  He didn't even move when I got up.  Poor bugger.  He'd probably been up all night babysitting me.  I winced at that thought.  And at the pounding in my head.  I had a wee.  Took a good long look at myself in the mirror and - surprise surprise - didn't like what I saw there staring back at me.  I brewed up and then made myself a cuppa that only sat there growing cold while I contemplated life.  I contemplated redecorating my flat too.  Wipe away the old Esme forever. 

I'd worked myself up into a pretty good rage when the phone rang.  I thought my head would explode before I answered it.... and wouldn't you just guess who it was? 

From the tone of his voice, I'd say it was safe to assume he'd found my blue scarf and the tea in his rubbish bin.  I think he said, "Hello."

I think I said, "Old fashioned family values, hey? Guess I should be grateful that St. Cort anointed me with his holy dick. Thanks a lot you sanctimonious bastard!"  I nearly passed out at the pain in my head when I slammed the handset back down- but I tell you, it felt good - damned good - to vent my spleen at him with every ounce of vitriol that had been swirling around inside me since last night.

From the doorway came a low whistle from one very rumpled Jeff Mitchell.  And then he laughed.  "And that, luv, is why I don't date women."  I couldn't help myself.  I laughed too.  "A bloke would have just belted me one.  I bet that would have hurt less than what he just got!"

I grinned.  "Bollocks.  You don't date women cos you like a big fat-"

"Em!"

"Pipe," I finished, rubbing at my temples.  It hurt to laugh.  It pretty much hurt to do anything.  

"Well you sure told him.  Feel better?"  He threw himself down at my kitchen table with a groan and reached for the tea I'd made, frowning when he found it cold. 

"No.  Not really."  He looked over at me from where he was making himself at home, refilling the kettle and digging through the cupboard for the tea he likes.  "Well... maybe a bit...."

Jeff nodded.  "You know he's going to call again.  He's not the sort to let this go."

"Let him try.  I jerked the cord out just now."

"Yeah?  He'll just come over then."  He scratched at himself crudely and then ran a hand through his hair.  "You want me to stay a while?"

I pulled my tongue at him.  "Thanks, Mum, but I think I can manage from here.  I'm a big girl...."  

He shrugged.  "I'll just have a cuppa and get off then.  See you at the pub later?"

I shook my head.  No way was I going to hang out there for a while.  I wanted to hole up and lick my wounds.  I also didn't want to have to see Cort's face all lit up cos he finally had the woman he really wanted tucked up at his side.  Just cos I have a fat heart doesn't mean the pain bounces straight off it.  Even I'm not a glutton for that much punishment.

"Em, you can't just hide your head in the sand."  

I tossed a tea towel at him.  "And that's why I need a girlfriend.  She'd have coddled me and cheered me on as I stuck pins into the bollocks of my little voodoo doll...."

"Jesus Christ!"  He groaned and grabbed at his package.  "Bloodthirsty little thing, aren't you?  At the risk of getting my bollocks stabbed- you can't help who you fall for.  He can't either, you know?  Don't be too hard on him."

I just sighed, not really in the mood to tell him that in my mind my little voodoo doll wasn't Cort specifically.  It was pretty much all men.  Well, all men of the non-poofter variety.  I was pretty taken with the one standing in my kitchen sporting a poorly arranged package.  Who else would dare defend his mate to me after babysitting me all night long?

He left not long after, though he did make me some toast before he had a cuppa and a shower.  I really must be down cos I wasn't even interested in perving his body when he came strolling out, all naked and golden, dripping water everywhere as he toweled off.  I just took a bite or two of the toast and tossed the rest in the bin when he wasn't looking. 

After he was gone I went for broke.  Got the box of hair colour I'd bought but hadn't used cos Cort had threatened to paddle my bum.  He'd liked the red.  God, her hair is red....  I suddenly hated the colour.  'Blackberry' sounded a dream to me.  I couldn't change it fast enough.  Afterwards, I took a long hot shower where I cried a bit more.  When I got out, I did my face and hair carefully, aware Jeff was right.  Cort wasn't the sort to back away from a difficult situation.  I knew it wouldn't be long before he turned up.  So I dressed in something I knew he wouldn't like.  I chose a pretty plum and tangerine outfit that flattered my figure.  One that was chic and trendy and much too modern to appeal to his tastes.  I was done dressing for men. 

And then I waited.

Fair play to him.  It wasn't long before I heard his knock.  This time the déjà vu wasn't quite so amusing.  I wasn't wearing his shirt.  I'd laundered it and it was folded up, ready to give back to him.  Funny, it was the only thing of his in my entire flat.  I wished I could wash the marks off my skin as easily as I had the scent of sex from his shirt. 

We had a very civilised conversation.  He apologised for hurting me and was honest about his feelings.  How he'd been alone for so long, that he truly thought Bou wasn't a part of his life in that way any more and that he was sorry his taking comfort in me had wound up hurting me in the end.  He seemed pretty miserable and I can't say I did a whole lot to put him at ease.  I was pretty miserable too.  Still, it was clear he didn't like that he'd hurt a woman.  It made it all that much harder because what had he really done wrong?  All he'd done was follow his heart.  And here he was in my flat, hat in hand, telling me the truth straight up even when it was hard.  You have to admire that, even if it rips your guts out to hear.  And it did.

He just shrugged and sighed and when he spoke, his voice was quiet but firm.  "I love her, Es."  Well, I reckon that pretty much says it all, doesn't it?  He said, 'I love her'.  I heard 'You're not special'.  I think the worst part of it all is that I cared enough about him to want him to be happy.  How sick is that?  To want something for another person when it's so agonising to your own sense of self?  Even worse, knowing he found his One gives me some strange sense of satisfaction.  He deserves it.  He's a good man.  But then, does that mean I deserve what I got?  A big fat nothing?

I didn't say much really.  Not sure I trusted myself to say a lot.  Mostly I think I just said that I was glad for him and that he was still my friend but that it would be a long time before I could look at the pair of them and not hurt.  He said that was fair enough.  I didn't tell him about the rest of it.  How my latest pathetic attempt at romance had been my last.  I hadn't just sworn off men.  I'd sworn off that old Esme.  Tossed her out with the rest of the rubbish; the tin of henna, the sheets we'd slept in, the lingerie I'd worn for him, the food I'd bought to feed him up.  And that was just the beginning....

He left quietly.  We didn't touch.  Not once.  He didn't call me 'darlin'' either, although he gave me one long last look before he walked away.  I got the impression he disapproved of the new me.  Well, that is just too bloody bad for him.      

The next few weeks were hard.  The first thing I did was add swimming to my regime.  In three days, the chlorine had bleached away the last of the henna.  I could say I wasn't sad to see it go- but I'd be lying.  I felt the loss if it just like I felt the loss of everything else.  I survived by working out until I dropped and nearly gutting my flat.  I got rid of almost everything.  I'd been wanting a change for so long.  It would have been nice to have it under better circumstances, but it was a welcome diversion all the same.  I never again slept in the bed I'd shared with Cort.  I slept in the spare room instead.  Besides, I'd been needing a new mattress for ages and had always wanted a sleigh bed... the perfect excuse, hey?  Some silver lining. 

Jeff nearly died when he popped in one afternoon and saw the place all naked and torn up.  New colour on the walls.  New rugs.  New window dressings lying in a heap over the equally new chaise....  all the furniture that I was keeping pushed to one side of the flat to make room for all the new boxes and crates being delivered.  You get the idea.  Jeff complained loudly.  Men rarely like change, especially when they're comfortable.  Me?  I couldn't get enough of it.  It gave me something to think on, other than the impeding Valentine holiday.  Just what I needed.  Seeing everyone else with their One.  No bloody thanks.

As it turns out, I wasn't the only one dreading Cupid's arrival.  Lachlan Curry seemed to be having a time of it as well.  I felt bad for being so wrapped up in myself that I hadn't really kept up with the pub's gossip.  I'd heard he and Cass had had a falling out in Zermatt, and who hadn't heard about Lach's fling with Sheila, but I guess he was more miserable than he'd let on. 

One night in early February, Bud poured Lachlan onto my new couch.  Poor bugger.  He was doing it tough.  At first I'd felt a bit put upon.  The very last thing I wanted in my life was another man- of any shape, variety or degree of drunkenness.  But what goes around comes around.  Jeff had looked after me.... now it was my turn to babysit.  And let me tell you, Lachlan Curry is a pathetic drunk.  Nearly as bad as me.  He bounced from belligerent to soppy to sad to comatose.  He slept for a bit and then when he couldn't find the loo, had a wee out the window- which personally gave me a bit of pleasure, I have to say.  Oh, to be able to take a squirt in the general direction of the pub... but I digress.

I spent a long night looking after Lachlan.  Fell asleep in the chair and woke to the soft sound of his mumbling.  I listened for a while and what I heard just broke my heart.  He would be mortified if he knew what he'd babbled, but it moved me profoundly.  Made me feel pretty awful too.  Here I was feeling sorry for myself and curled up in misery on my couch was a man who'd lost his One.  He'd been in love - real love- and had lost it.  Had his heart torn to bloody ribbons.  Had his chance and buggered it all up. 

What Cort had said to me had cut deep, but what Lachlan was suffering was so much worse.  And the things he spoke of wanting.... It just reached in and shredded what was left of my insides.  His voice was rough with drink, but I heard his broken heart plainly through his slurred speech and soft sobs.  He just wanted to be loved.  To be enough for her.  To have her love and respect and admiration.  He wanted a life with her.  A future.  A family.  He spoke of wanting to grow old with someone.  To share the disappointments and the surprises in life.  A lover, a partner, a wife and mother, a friend.  He rubbed at his chest, right over his heart and closed his eyes.  I saw wetness trickle out from the corners and he whispered that he was so tired of hurting. 

My heart went out to him.  Who couldn't be moved by the pain of one good man's heart?  His words may have been slurred, but what he said was the loveliest, most honest thing I think I've ever heard a man say.  And it certainly gave me something to think on.  Not that I had any intention of changing my mind about men and love...

Of course, the following morning, he had absolutely no memory of it whatsoever.  Isn't that just like a man?  He just sat up with a groan, rucky hair going every which way and rubbed his eyes.  "Where am I?" he croaked.

Poor bugger.  He's not really the sort to tie one on like that.  "You're at my flat.  Bud poured you into my couch last night.  I think he was afraid you might... er... decorate the inside of his car on the way home."  Lachlan groaned.  "And no, you're not dead, though you do a bloody good impression, mate."  He was squirming a bit.  I knew that sign.  "Loo's through there.... come back and have a lie down if you want.  Sleep it off.  Makes no difference to me.  I've no plans for today."  Isn't that the sad pathetic truth? "Besides, it's the perfect excuse for a big greasy breakfast later on."  A breakfast that I had absolutely no intention of sampling.  You all know how compulsive a nature I have.  I was off food for good.  The idea of feeding up a man still appealed to me though. 

Lachlan staggered off for a wee and then fell back asleep on my couch.  Now there's a man who's just about my speed.  Unconscious.  Best kind if you ask me.  He woke a few hours later, looking much more human.

"Sorry about that, luv.  I must have gone back to sleep."  He had a look on his face that was half way between discomfort and bashful amusement.  "I couldn't get a shower, could I?  And you wouldn't have a razor about?  I look a bit of a mess."

I had him sorted in no time.  Between Jeff and Paul, I actually had quite an assortment of men's toiletries available, although I enjoyed the look on Lachlan's face when I teased that the only razor I had for him to borrow was the one I used on my legs...  You should have seen him blanch.  I probably shouldn't have, but I just couldn't resist.  The real truth is I tossed out my razor along with the rest of my old self.  It's nothing but waxing for me these days.  Riiiiiip!  What's a little pain when you're numb where it really matters?  I considered telling Lachlan just for laughs when he asked about borrowing a razor, but figured he'd probably be scandalized.  All cheek and clever wit aside, he's a bit old-fashioned about that sort of thing.  At least, that's the impression I got from hearing him ramble on, half out of his head. 

All in all, a memorable night- but it too passed into the blur of monotonous days.  Sleep.  Run.  Shower.  Work.  Swim.  Crash.  Get up and do it all over again.  I started having the odd fag again too.  Now I know smoking is bad for you, but in times of stress.... well, that's typically when the urge to put something in my mouth becomes unbearable.  Better a cigarette than a cheesecake.  And at least it kept me from eating. 

It was a hard habit to kick and hearing all the hubbub about Valentine's Day wasn't exactly helping.  I was doing a fairly admirable job until Cort showed up at my door unexpectedly late one evening, just a day or two before Valentine's, holding up one very drunk Lachlan Curry who was apparently too inebriated to make his way home.  Again.  I felt for him.  He was really having it rough.  Who could blame him though?  Love stinks.

Still, seeing Cort was harder than I thought it would be.  His big bulk filling my door (made all the bigger by the mass of Lachlan's largely dead weight) only served to remind me how it felt to be held in those strong arms.  He greeted me softly with breath that smelt of bourbon and I was mortified to feel myself start to grow damp as the sound of his voice and the scent of his cologne triggered a thousand erotic memories.  Crying his name softly.  Coming under the weight of his big body and driving thrusts.  Drinking his orgasm.  Seeing his creamy white semen spurt up on his belly.  Hearing that sound he made when I'd done something he'd fancied.  Hearing his giggle in the tub.  God, help me.  I am certifiable.     

Thankfully Lachlan's mutterings gave me something to focus on instead and I jumped to steady him.  Cort just waved me away and started hefting Lachlan toward the couch... and then stopped short when he realised most of the stuff in my flat was new and barely any of what was left was where he'd remembered it.  Plonking Lachlan down with a low grunt of relief as two hundred pounds of dead weight crashed down onto the couch, Cort turned and looked at me, taking in the changes in my hair and my body and even my clothes.  It was late, all I had on was one of Jeff's footie jerseys and a pair of those damned pink socks.  I reckon maybe a bit of what he saw triggered a few memories for him too.  When he rubbed his fingers over his palms where the mehndi had once been, I knew I was right.

There was a horribly awkward moment where I didn't know what to do with my hands, where to look or what to say.  I was flustered and uncomfortable.  Sad too; my head full of 'what ifs' and 'might have beens' and an overly large helping of powerfully painful memories that hadn't yet faded.  There was a good helping of anger in there too somewhere.  Cort didn't want me but it was clear he didn't like me in another man's shirt either.  Men!  They are the most unreasonable creatures on this Earth.  Next to women, that is.

I suppose he could have said any number of banal pleasantries... but Cort is Cort.  He's never really been one to take the easy way out, which was one of the things that had originally drawn me to him. 

He just looked me up and down and folded his hands together.  "Whatever you do, Es... just remember that some of us liked that girl you're trying so hard not to be anymore."  He was trying to help, I know... but in the way that only someone who knows you intimately can do, his words cut deep.  My anger and pain boiled over. 

"Sure they do.  Just not enough to want more than 'uncomplicated mutually beneficial sexual release' from me, right?" I snapped back. 

I regretted the words instantly as I saw hurt flare in his pale eyes.  I could see the strain on his face and I hated myself for making him feel guilty.  We can't help who we love.  I know that.  I do.  See, this is why I've sworn off men and romance.  Here I am eviscerated by his words and I'm feeling bad for hurting his feelings. 

He ducked his head and I heard him swallow hard.  His chin lifted and I saw his eyes flick to Lachlan's comatose body on the couch before he walked to the door.  Part of me wanted to call him back and apologise.  The other part of me wanted so scream at him for chipping away at the only thing that had been keeping me going.  I felt fresh pain all over again.  So I'd made him feel bad?  At least he could go home to someone who'd soothe him.  He'd just kicked out the only leg I had left to stand on and left me to pick up the pieces by myself.  Thanks a bloody lot, mate.

At the door he stopped and turned.  His voice was low and soft.  "I know I hurt you bad, Es, and you'll never know how sorry I am for that."  He touched me then, a hand on my cheek.  Just for a moment.  God, the last time we'd touched was when we'd made love.  I trembled, trying to keep it together.  "I know you probably won't believe me now... but for what it's worth, it meant something to me."   

The pain squeezing my chest made me want to scoff at his words even though I knew he was speaking the truth.  Just as I knew it tore him up inside to have hurt someone he cared about.  But I simply stood there, afraid even opening my mouth would start the tears I was desperately trying to hold back.

"I meant what I said about a man not having enough good things in life that touch him in here."  He tapped his chest.  "You were that for me at a time I really needed it."  I choked back a sob.  "Whatever you think about me or tell yourself after....."  He paused, his voice thick with emotion.  "All parts of the path we walk are important, Es.  I don't blame you for being angry with me, but just so you know... I'm glad you were a part of mine."

He turned to go and it just broke my heart that he thought what he'd said had fallen on deaf ears; so convinced was he that he was past any hope of redemption in my eyes.  I hated the thought of Cort thinking himself unforgivable once again.  The burden he carried was too heavy already.

I jumped and reached for his arm.  I really didn't know what to say or how to say it so I just squeezed his hand.  He was surprised at first but then he just smiled in that quiet way he has and I think we both knew we'd turned some sort of corner.  Even if it still hadn't really changed how I felt inside.  Sure you're good, Es.  But not good enough.  Not special.

The sound of the door closing roused Lachlan, who sat up with a groan.  "S'that the door?.... Cass?  That you, luv?....  I've missed you so...."  He was out of his head, rambling on again.  It just made me sadder because I knew that whatever I felt was only a drop in the bucket compared to his hurt.  I curled up there by him on the floor and held his hand.  It wasn't long before I was in tears. 

Strangely enough, they seemed to work their way through his drunken fog like nothing else.  My heart went out to him as even hurting and in pain, he reached out to comfort me.  "C'mere.... S'alright... Shhh...."  His speech was slurred and he didn't have the dexterity to pull me up the way he wanted, but his hand was still firm on mine.  I crawled up next to him and he pulled me down against his chest and clumsily tucked my head under his chin before his arm flopped down over me.  "Doan cry, baby girl.... doan you cry... M'right here....." 

He seemed to be totally unaware his eyes were wet too.  It made me want to go and shake Cass.  Did she have any idea what she was throwing away?  Did he?  It made me cry that much harder to be reminded that there really were some good men out there who were worth risking your heart for.  The problem was that all of them were in love with someone else. 

Two nights later, on Valentine's Day, I did what most girls do who haven't had anyone ask 'Will you be mine?'.  I sat alone in the dark, smoking and staring up at the night sky, drinking wine and feeling pretty rotten.  It had been a hard day... but I'd survived it.  Nobody had sent me a card.  Not even my Mum had rung like she usually does. 

There was one bit of a bright spot, but even that had been hard in its own way.  On my way out to go running, I found I'd had a delivery left outside my door.  It wasn't hard to work out who the simple bouquet of daisies had come from.  Only one man in my life had ever given me any... and there were only two words on the plain little card.  I'm sorry. 

I like to think it's a good sign that I wasn't angry enough to chuck the flowers straight into the rubbish or pathetic enough to need to keep them because they were the only thing I got from anyone.  Taking a single flower out for sentimental reasons I don't feel much like sharing, I pocketed the small card and then walked to the next flat over, placed the flowers against the door, rang the bell and then hared off before the old widow who lives there could catch me.  I reckon she'd enjoy those fresh flowers more than anyone I could think of.

The run was long and difficult as it always is, but on my way back home, I saw that the flowers were gone off the neighbour's doorstep.  Good.  At least Cort's gift will give one lonely girl a bit of a smile today.

As for me?  I didn't smile much at all.  Mostly I tried not to think of what day it was... but it was a bit hard to do with the sounds of the Valentine's Day party at the pub humming through my walls.  Even though I tried to keep busy, I wound up at the window instead, twirling that silly daisy around my finger and watching the world go by, like I always do.  It was hard seeing all the couples coming and going next door.  The best part of the night for me was seeing Lachlan Curry walk in with Cass on his arm.  It made me feel sad somehow too.  Bittersweet.  She is one lucky, lucky, lucky girl to have the heart of a man like that. 

The night got darker.  I went to pour myself some more wine and was surprised to see I'd plucked some of the petals off the daisy.  Love me?  Love me not, hey?  I don't know why I kept at it, but I did, plucking out the odd petal now and again as I watched the comings and goings on the cobbled street below.  I don't really think it's that much of a surprise that as I dropped the last petal, it was to the words, "Love me not." 

I stared at the stem and its bright yellow head, now devoid of creamy white petals.  Sad little flower.  A bit like me, I reckon.  Not quite as pretty as the others, a bit beat up but still a flower all the same, wanting to be appreciated like any other.  Below my window, Cort and Bou walked away together into the night.  I smiled.  I cried a little too.  That's the thing about hope.  It's a frail old thing... but somehow, also bloody hard to kill.  I'm still not sure whether that's a good thing or not.    

The window was cold against my forehead as I twirled the broken stem in my fingers.  It's funny, isn't it, how life works out?  Travels in circles, I mean.  Six months ago, I was at this very same place doing exactly the same thing.  Sitting at window, watching the world going by and wishing I was a part of it.