I contacted you halfway through October,
I probably should have left it until I was sober.
I hate making first moves, it goes ’gainst convention
But I guess my one-liner piqued your attention.
You replied straight away, claimed you’d beat me at Scrabble
We bantered, you flirted, should’ve known you were trouble.
For a fortnight the messages flew thick and fast;
You were ill, so you claimed, and had free time unsurpassed.
You told me you’d answer my lines of enquiry
When we met in the flesh: we put a date in the diary.
The fifteenth of November was the eve that we fixed
But soon after planning, you said that up you’d got mixed;
The fifteenth was out – how about the twenty second instead?
Sure, I typed, though by then I could be married or preggers or dead.
A whole fortnight away, but you said it will happen, goddammit,
You claimed you'd been to the masonry, carved it in granite.
Then out of the blue there was radio silence -
No mail for a week, I enjoyed not your absence,
But I got on with my life, forgot you existed,
Then seven days later you wrote, you’d persisted.
No mention was made of your sudden disappearance:
You confirmed our night out, I could not fault your adherence.
But the unexplained Mute Week had still left its mark
The man that I marry won’t leave me in the dark.
It sounds melodramatic but it was plain inattentive,
And left me aware of a large disincentive.
So I waited three days before I replied,
Wrote back on Wednesday having swallowed my pride,
Ignored your hiatus, acted footloose and breezy,
Though deep down I guess that I still felt uneasy.
“Where ‘n’ when shall I meet you on Saturday night?”
I wanted to plan my dress, get footwear right.
With three days to go to the date, I expected
To hear back quite quickly, yet once more you neglected
To contact my good self, instead opting for nada:
A silence as subtle as the Spanish armada.
Perhaps you had died? But no, to my chagrin
Soulmates confirmed you were still logging in.
By Saturday morning I could deny it no more
Your granite guarantee was in crumbs on the floor.
Reluctant to show that I cared, I thought maybe
I’ll pretend I’m not fussed, not be a cry baby.
But, hang on, I thought – why should he get away
With behaving so craply, is that really OK?
So I tried to come up with a kindly suggestion
To show silence gives girls like me mild indigestion.
I asked, “Are there reasons you’re unable to write
And explain that you don’t want to meet me tonight?”
It’s a function of Soulmates to show when your mails
Have been read by their recipient – so you go off the rails
When you receive no reply for day upon day
And it’s clear that they’ve found a preferred bird of prey.
A few minutes after I sent my short message
I could see that you’d read it, but continuing presage
Assured that I did not expect a reply
And thus I stayed calm when none came by and by.
So now I’m at home on this Saturday eve
The X Factor’s granted me some small reprieve.
No, really, I’m fine, I’m horizontal and dressed
Head to toe in velour: I’m but sad north north west.
It's not that I mind that he didn't want to meet me,
He's not Jerry Maguire and he doesn't complete me;
I'd just rather he'd cancelled, I'd have made other plans,
Not carried on cultivating an ass like Roseanne's.
So: the dating game’s tough but I do like the drama,
And I was mean about the last guy so now this is karma.
They bite the dust daily, these men, don’t you know?
I’ll bounce back and be brave, not let the bruise show.
I win some, I lose some, I’m winsome, not a loser
Won’t take it to heart or become a substance abuser.
And I’m sure that in time a good guy will fall madly
In love with yours truly and I’ll accept his heart gladly.
Until then I’ll continue my romantic journey
And hope that it ends on a yacht, not a gurney.
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