i eat dinner

Spoilers: General series three

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I eat dinner at the kitchen table
By the light that switches on
I eat leftovers with mashed potatoes
No more candlelight, no more romance, no more small talk
When the hunger's gone

I eat dinner: Rufus Wainwright & Dido

***

It's been three months since she left you and you feel no sorrow.

You're glad that she's gone.

You hope that she suffers. She deserves as much.

It only bothers you that she didn't care about you. That she was perfectly happy to blatantly destroy your relationship within the easy view of others in the office.

It took a while for you to come to terms with that.

It took a while for you to be able to respect Jack.

And as you sit down to dinner on Friday night, alone as you have been for the past three months, you wonder where it all went wrong.

The sad thing is that you can pinpoint the exact moment.

It was another Friday night and you had invited her over to dinner.

You spent ages perfecting the ambiance: candles, wine, home cooked meal, music. You thought it through a great deal over that week, trying to decide what she might appreciate.

How could you be so wrong?

Friday night came and she arrived in a short black dress. You told her the right things at this point; something about how great she looked.

You were saving the important words for later.

Dinner was a success. And now you realise that you should have left it there. You should have taken her back to your room, made love to her, but not said anything about how you felt.

Because the minute you admitted your feelings, you could sense a change in her disposition. And it wasn't a positive response.

Admittedly, she didn't completely back away as you told her you loved her. She didn't cringe or look pained. Instead, she smiled.

But you could tell that she wasn't smiling on the inside.

Only later did you realise that this was when she began to plot her escape.

You didn't sleep together that night and you didn't take the time to question her motives for returning to her apartment. You hoped that allowing her to have time to herself would give her the chance to think things through; to understand her own feelings for you.

The problem hence arose when her feelings were in disagreement with your own.

It shortly afterwards became wholly clear to you that she didn't love you.

She pulled away. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. And then… bam.

You saw her in Jack's office. And while this wasn't out of the ordinary, her behaviour towards him was.

She laughed at something he said, and then, almost indiscernibly, she glanced at you. She glanced at you and after that, she placed her hand on his arm. He returned the gesture by placing his own hand on top. She touched his face, stroking it gently with her finger.

You looked around, checking that no one else was around to witness your humiliation.

Because you immediately understood what this was.

She hadn't answered her cell phone last night and now you knew exactly why. She was with him. And now she was making it entirely clear to you.

And something in your stomach ached deeply and made you feel nauseous. But somehow you kept yourself together. And you made the decision to shut all your feelings out because she wasn't worth it.

She meant nothing to you and although you had to remind yourself of this fact repeatedly, you almost began to believe it.

Later you approached her. You made yourself emotionally withdraw from the situation; you didn't need to beg her to come back to you, or offer your forgiveness. Fitzgerald men didn't do that.

Instead you told her dispassionately “You slept with Jack.” And you almost believed your nonchalance.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Why?”

“Because it's what I do.”

“You're wrong,” you informed her, momentarily forgetting that you didn't care.

“I don't do relationships, Martin,” she said. “I didn't mean to hurt you but you knew how I felt before we started this.”
And this hurt you more than she would ever understand. Because you believed that she had changed and because you thought you meant more to her than that. And you couldn't believe that she was willing to give up on you so easily. And your nonchalant demeanour cracked wide open, shooting out enmity and disgust and all the feelings that you tried to convince yourself you didn't feel.

“Don't give me that bullshit. This is exactly what you wanted; you orchestrated this for your own bitter and twisted reasons. Led me on; make me believe that you'd changed; that “you make me happy” crap. It's nothing to do with your inability to “do relationships”; you get distinct pleasure from screwing men over.”
She shrugged and it made you incredibly angry.

“It's not like it matters now,” she said. “I've handed in my notice.”

“So this is what you do?” you contested, and you didn't care that the office wasn't the appropriate place for this conversation. You hated her. “Sever all emotional ties, move on when it becomes too much for you?”

“Use whatever psychoanalysis you like, Martin,” she sighed, “but you can't change the past.”

And then she left. And in some ways you wanted to run after her and tell her exactly what you think. And a small part of you wanted you to make her tell you the truth; that she loved you too and she's just scared to admit it. But you didn't. Because she's not worth it and because Fitzgerald men don't belittle themselves in that way; if there's one thing your father has taught you it's how to effectively cover your true feelings.

She left three weeks later and you're bitter that she was the one who gets to start over with no reminders of the past.

As the weeks pass by you'll try to forget her. And it might not be easy, and it might be heart-breaking, and it might require you to be lonely, and it might mean that sometimes you drink more than you should, and it might occasionally let you down, but eventually you will manage.

And you'll forget about your time together.

You'll forget about your feelings for her.

You'll forget about her smile and you'll forget the truth. You'll forget that you were good together. You'll forget that you loved her. You'll forget that you convinced yourself that she loved you.

But that's not today.

Today, eating alone on a Friday night, eating the remainders of yesterday's take out, you know that it's not as easy as it sounds.

Because there are memories of her sitting here at the kitchen table, eating dinner, drinking wine, with candlelight, and music, and talking, and love.

And you can't forget.


***

Companion Piece: walk away again

Sequel: back to you

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