Postlude

A titled peace this age with it brings;
The joy, for confusion, will not show his head:
Come hither, we’ll talk more of these questionable things;
Some shall understand, and some shall not:
For never was a story of more stress,
Than this of love and its new found Happiness.

This book is dedicated to the important people. Much love to you.

Special thanks to Shaun Davis for Chapter Eight (As Written By...My Agent).

Look out for the next book - a poetry book about my favourite subject.

Read the beginning of it all, Sexy Utopia. 

Marcus Flemmings 2010 (c) 

Become Happiness (Chapter Twenty)

In the beginning we are born with distinct opportunity. We are born with the same happiness gene. Time gives us the gift of ambition. Soon this manifests itself into greed, lust and other unsavoury emotions.
Buddhists believe in the ability to seek happiness via the loss of craving. Sadness is referred to as ‘Suffering’. The attainment of non-attachment leads to nirvana. What we all believe we wish to seek.
Clear mind, clear thoughts. Clear path way to enlightenment. Safe haven to happiness. Nirvana.

My methodology is slightly shifted from that chosen practice. I choose to embrace the opposite side of that thought. Grip onto all of lives pitfalls and great oblique overviews for my own personal humour and, latently, my satisfaction.

Take love for example. The thing that has always eluded me. I have loved and lost. That old adage 'It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never have loved at all' - this is true.

With her it was the love for what she was in my mind. Rather than love itself. Love unreciprocated is not love - it’s merely passion misguided. She was perfect for me. But she wasn't for me. Life is full of these anomalies...

When I finish my poetry book, when all is dusted and done, I'll dedicate it to love. I'll dedicate it to that emotion I felt for her.
My unexplained mystery.
It'll be a manual for love. It'll be a success and it'll be REAL. My agent will finally let me into his office with welcoming arms due to my talent and not my sarcasm and basic form of wit, which mildly amuses him (Even though he’ll never admit it).

As for her, she'll live. She'll be happy. She doesn't NEED me. It would be man's natural will to hate and wish her an unhappy existence. It is not my natural will. In fact, the opposite. Because, in my mind, she will always be what she is in my mind. And that person deserves happiness.

Novelist and physicist, Charles Percy Snow once quipped, ‘The pursuit of happiness is a most ridiculous phrase; if you pursue happiness you'll never find it.’ I work with this notion.

Invariably Happiness will find me. With my carefully thought out lifestyle I am the epitome of what Nirvana is.

Become Happiness.

Embrace Female Elevators (Chapter Nineteen)

I love elevators.
They're special. Much to the disagreement of my vertigo they favour me more than vehicles of an aero dynamic persuasion.
The female voice in the elevator is the best part of the whole experience. Her comforting pre-recorded voice is both courteous and welcoming - "Floor 1", "Floor 2" and so on - It fills me with a kind of orgasmic glee. Her tone was not dissimilar to that of your partner after a long term relationship- words mean nothing. Monotonous sounds - in one ear and out the other.
The whole experience was rather similar to that stage of a long term relationship. Minus the 'orgasmic glee' part.
As the elevator does down I ponder upon a question, what else is similar to relationships?

"Hey there." A familiar female voice says, "It had to happen didn't it?"
It was the accountant - as she entered the lift. Surprised, I mumble back..."Hey."
I hadn't spoken to her since the meeting aka date we shared. She was right though it was bound to happen at some point. She worked in the same building as my agent. The only mystery was what she was doing on the third floor - as she worked on the ground floor. "I guess this could be quite awkward if there was than 2 more floors till the ground floor."
Still rather shocked and, more than anything, embarrassed about not contacting her since the meeting aka date I reply with another mumble...
"Yeah. I guess."
Deafening silence fills the elevator. It feels comparable to entering the black hole. Not that I have. But my imagination runs wild at times.
We both look away from each other. The voice of the elevator lady becomes inaudible flooded by the sound of the elephant in the elevator. For the briefest of seconds I turn and look at her. She was just as beautiful as the first time I saw her – me exiting the women’s toilets. Why didn't I contact her AT ALL after our meeting aka date? I turn away contemplating the answer to this.
“GROUND FLOOR” the female elevator says in her loudest voice.
"Well bye. Nice seeing you again." The accountant says in her smiley way.
I instinctively walk in front of her and push the button for floor FOUR. Whilst managing to block her exit.
"Let's talk." I plead.
She chuckles, "What? On the lift?"
"Yeah why not?"
She laughs, "Yeah why not!"
The doors shut and the female elevator heads back up.
A silence again.
I don't know how to begin.
"This is romantic." She quips.
"Yeah. It’s not my most celebrated moment, I must say."
"To top the moments spent not contacting me?"
I laugh nervously.
"Yeah. Kinda."
"You gonna give me a contrived excuse for not contacting me? Cat died?"
"Don't have a cat."
"Dog had to visit a vet?"
"No dog."
"Had to write a new book about useless men? An autobiographical kind of thing?" She said, on the verge of bitterness.
I laugh with nervousness again then open my to speak, she interrupts.
"Don't worry I already know."
"You do?"
"Yup something to do with an ex or some girl you like or something."
"A little."
"I spoke to your agent last week to find out if you were still alive."
"Ahhh..."
"He told about some girl...your ex?"
"No. Actually she was more of a muse. Or more like..."
"Someone you wanted and had history with?"
"Yes. But more than that. You know in life, when you really want something and you reach out for it and it seems close and you reach out more and more and it seems closer but in actuality it’s further and further?"
"Yeah..."
"That was her. And I know that's no excuse for how I treated you but...well there's no but..."
She smiles. "We all have moments of weakness.”
I correct her, "Stupidity.".
"That too."
“FLOOR FOUR” says the elevator.
"Back down to ground floor I guess?" She asks, already knowing the answer.
She presses the ground floor button.
"So am I forgiven?" I ask as the elevator goes down.
"Shall I forgive you? That's a question. I'll have to consult my calculator and equations to answer that."
"Ahhh, I get that joke. Cos of the whole you being an accountant thing right?"
"Indeed. You’re a quick one. I'll have to keep an eye on you."
We both laugh followed by brief warm glance at each other and then turn away.
“GROUND FLOOR” our talking lift informs us.
"Take care of yourself." She says exiting the lift.
"You too." I reply, still in the lift.
She waves a cute wave and slowly begins walking away. I mimic her wave - she laughs her even cuter laugh - just then the elevator door closes. I try to stop it - to no avail. All I get is a glimpse of her grinning at my predicament.
I guess it’s back to the  floor four with my loving female elevator.
My longest relationship ever.

Sometimes Hark Back To The Times Of Yore (Chapter Eighteen)

"Where’s the book?" My agent shouts from across his desk - two weeks after the dinner party.
"In my creative hub."
"Creative hub? What is that? Your love palace where you bring your female groupies?"
I laugh, "I don't have groupies. I'm a writer. We have critics."
He chuckles then stops instantly with a deadly serious look, "Seriously, where is it?"
"You know...I don't know. In my head still."
"Don't tell me...writers block again? If I hear that phrase again I'm gonna throttle you. I should do it anyway after that dinner party stunt."
I laugh wildly, "You enjoyed that right?" I ask.
"No. I didn't. Neither did my wife."
"You mean the woman you’re cheating on?"
"Yeah about that, that chapter I wrote, you gotta remove that."
"Really? I was thinking of turning the journal into an online book."
"What? Like a blog?"
"No. Not a blog. A book. Online."
"Basically a blog then..."
"A book." I reply straight-faced.
"’Superman's a legend - he's almost undefeatable.’" He says, mimicking me.
We both laugh.
"How do you think of this shit?" He asks.
"You had to laugh when I said that right? Sorry for fucking up your ostentatious party."
"You won't laugh when you hear what I'm about to tell you."
"What? That producer and his wife divorced?"
"Oh nah. They're holding a dinner party next week. They're together still."
"Really? Can I come to that? I might be able to do the trick this time and actually break them up."
He chuckles, "Be serious for a second. That producer he was there to talk to you about a movie deal for your last book - Sexy Utopia."
"Really? Serious?"
"Yup! Obviously that's not happening now though."
"Shit. I kinda messed that up, right?"
"Yes. You did.” He says flatly before continuing, “Finish that poetry thing."
"I'm gonna put the journal online first."
"Whatever - just do something. Please. People will forget you otherwise."
I laugh.
"Sure."
I get up to leave.
"Don’t come back here unless you're doing something creative from your ‘hub’. I said it before and I’ll say it again, this is not a social club."
"Okay." I say leaving.
"And what's happening with that girl?"
"Nothing. I don't think I'll ever understand that situation."
I open the door to leave...
"I know about her already." he says smiling, "I meant the accountant."
I stop for a second and ingest thoughts of the beautiful, zany accountant. A brief grin to myself then an exit.

Always Resort To Carnage (Chapter Seventeen)

"What do you think huh?" My agent asked.
"It’s good, yeah."
"Better than that gourmet shit huh?" He asked with too much enthusiasm.
"Yeah I guess." I replied - with my new ‘whatever’ stance.
I was at a dinner party hosted by my agent, his wife and his pretentious industry friends. 6 of them - with their wives, apart from one younger dude, an actor apparently.. Being sat around the table with these individuals was painful enough without the questions being fired in my direction non-stop. It was as if they didn't get enough quality creativity time in their lives so they had to turn to me for some flair.
"So when’s the book out?" A well groomed 50 year old producer asked. 
"Hmmm, not sure. Soon." I mumble in response.
"Probably in the next 3 months. He's on fire right now" counter-answered my agent. Glee in his face.
"What's it about?" The producers younger (much) wife asked.
I pause to answer. Not particularly caring. My agent steps in, "It’s about love - a poetry novel."
Everyone around the table gasps in excitement.
"Sounds interesting." The actor guy says.
 "Can I star in the movie version?" He adds with a sarcastic tone.
"If I finish it, yeah."
My agent laughs nervously, "Good joke!"
"I'm not joking." I say.
"Writers block hey?" The actor asks.
"Yup."
"Me too. I'm writing a novel about war and peace."
"Is it called War and Peace?" I ask, in jest. Warming up to the party. Mainly the guest’s eccentric personalities.
"Yeah! How did you know?" He says. Everyone, thinking he’s joking, laughs. His serious, confused face soon changes the mood.
"What?" He asks innocently.
"You do realise there's a book called War and Peace already?" My agent asks him.
"There is?" He asks - he's so dumb. "That's okay no one will know the original."
I let out an impromptu laugh. The first time I had laughed properly in 3 weeks.
"What do you mean no one will know? It’s one of the most famous books of all time." My agent passionately asks.
I laugh again. No one else does.
"You gotta change the name." Says the producer.
I cackle evilly, amused by the crowd. Everyone looks at me. Bemused.
"Don't mind him he's just in a bad mood. Some girl he liked dumped him." Explains my agent. 
Everyone gasps - 'Are you okay?’ I hear some ask. I decide on melodrama to entertain myself:
"Yeah she's basically taken my mind and put it in an industrial sized cocktail blender and then poured it out into a heart-shaped jug and taken intermittent SIPS from it."
"No one sips anymore." Says the producers wife, really meaning it. She of blonde hair, like a customary token trophy wife.
I nod and agree, "Very true."
"Sorry to hear that man." Says the actor, "I once had to play a heart broken guy in a stage production. Very heart wrecking."
"Yeah? How did that go?" I ask, not at all paying attention.
"It was rather painful actually because I had just broken up with..."
"What about that Mandela eh?" I interrupt him, it was my turn to interrupt people, "Nelson Mandela - Terrorist"
More gasps from everyone. This time of a shocked variety. My agent, knowing that old line, steps in:
"Let's have dessert shall we?"
"You can't say that..." The producer tells me, oblivious to his attempt to change the subject. "What grounds do you have to say that?"
"Well he was part of a group called ANC they threatened and carried out various killings.” My background on this subject was vast - owing to my insistence upon continually using tired and tested line.
"Let's not talk about this now, shall we?" Said my Agent, again trying to change the subject. I loved my agent. He always supports me through all. Writers block, love life...hmmm...I say “everything” but only two things really. That was enough. However, at the risk of spoiling his party, I had to entertain myself.
Everyone in the room, still shell shocked by the statement I made, awkwardly drank their drinks.
A short silence.
The producer’s face filled with disgust whilst he SIPPED his fruit cocktail mixed with a slight drop of Vodka. Then he continues sporadically,
"Seriously there's no foundation for what you're openly spouting out - as if it’s a fact. Absolutely none. He's a living legend."
"I just told you the foundation." I retort arrogantly, also sipping my drink, "Legend? Nah he's not a legend. Superman's a legend. He's almost unbeatable." I quip.
My agent giggles, trying to contain himself.
"So childish." The producer mutters.
"Who’s Nelson Mandela?" The actor asks.
No one answers.
"Actually hunny, he's got a point." Says the young wife of the producer.
"What????" He says loudly in response.
"Well Nelson Mandela did use 'aggressive tactics' - causing terror and panic. I mean that is the definition of a terrorist isn't?"
She was smarter than she looked.
"Why are you agreeing with this man? He's anarchic at best. A plain old childish troublemaker at worst. Why do you always do this? No one wants to hear your opinion. You're here to look good."
I laugh.
"Don't oppress me." The wife emotionally replies, almost shouting.
"Oppress you? You obviously worked out how to use the thesaurus on that MAC that you brought with my black card. What kind of gold digging wife buys an APPLE MAC? I mean buy a diamond ring or a handbag. An APPLE MAC??"
A silence. His wife sobs.
I smile.
He continues his tirade of abuse, "Why defend that guy? You sleeping with him too? Might as well! You've slept with everyone else."
She cries even further. He looks at the actor – deadpan eyes.
"Yes I know she slept with you too!"
Everyone turns to the actor. He pulls a blank expression.
"It was only once!" He innocently says trying to defend himself. An argument breaks out between the three of them. With others joining in to calm them down. A crescendo of discontent.
Perfect.
I sip my water and watch it all, wry smiled.
From across the table, beyond the bickering, my agent looks at me shaking his head - like a disappointed father. I raise my glass to him and grin wildly.
My Happiness had returned.

Deny The Denial Of Love (Chapter Sixteen)

I saw an ad on the train the other day proclaiming that the 'stroke' is the number three biggest killer of humans. Well, I want to know what the number one killer is - that's what I need to be wary of. Forget number three. Why spend thousands on an ad campaign to tell me about the number 3 killer? Money NOT well spent.

"Excuse me" a middle aged man says to me on the stairs leading up to some place. I purposely don't excuse him. I want a confrontation. I want a confrontation where a person beats me to a pulp. It would be preferable if that person was suffering from some sort of depression. A beating at my expense might drag them foot first through their condition. At least then my beating won’t have been for a selfish cause. However if this type of individual is not my aggressor then it matters not. I just need a good thrashing to help me physically feel the pain of her crushing my heart.

Friendship? Pah, what’s that?  Friendship bores me. How can men and women be friends? Sex always gets in the way. Or worse, Love.

She laughed when I even uttered the word love. As if I had said marriage.
9 days since that whole incident and I was feeling less confused - I cared less about the confusion she caused and more about my own inability to not fall in love. As much as I denied it, I felt ‘in love’ with her. She encompassed my very being.

Confusion was secondary. All I now felt was angry at myself for falling.

The first great killer of humans is love. The second is stupidity. The third is the 'stroke'.

And Also Question Day Four (Chapter Fifteen)

When I kiss her the world goes silent. I see the universe and all the answers to the theorem of time.
As we kissed for the fourth time in 24 hours I began to believe that I knew how to predict the exact time and moment that this world will end. I felt omnipotent.

Today I chose the venue we’d meet at. It was a boat bar that we had passed but two days previous.

After some light chat about nothing and a drink, water for me, wine for her, we shared lips for the fifth time. The end of this shared moment was rather awkward though –she pulled her head away prematurely and took a second out. A blank stare into the distance and a turn of the head.
“How was that for you? Did the earth move?” I jokingly ask, to make the awkwardness less so.
She smiles lightly. No response.
“Is that a yes?”
“Is what a yes?” She asks, preoccupied, before rummaging through her bag for something. Nothing it seems.
I take a sip of my water and look outside at the river. A discomfited glaze hits our space. A silence.
“What are we doing?” She asks – almost at a mumble. With more stares at nothing in particular. Almost comatose.
I, confused, don’t reply.
“What the hell are we doing?” She asks again, this time more directly. I am forced to reply this time via her lack of ambiguousness.    
“What do you mean?” Nice reply from me.
“This. Us. What are we doing?”
“Mostly talking crap and kissing.” I reply whilst smiling. She doesn’t smile back.
“That’s what I mean. We’re friends. Friends don’t do this.”
“Well, we’re escalating our friendship to something more precious.”
“Yeah.” She replies flatly, pausing, then continuing, “I don’t want that.”
I am taken aback. It felt like the perfect mountain I had climbed in the past 96 hours was being slowly ripped down by some corporate fucks with aspirations of building another of the ‘world’s tallest buildings’ (How many do they need? Really?)
“Why not?” I asked – with that confused look on my face, that’s normally reserved for people who ask directions when I don’t want to tell them.
“It doesn’t feel right. We’re friends.”
“But...”
She cuts me mid-sentence, “It doesn’t matter what you say....it just doesn’t.”
“I don’t get a say?”
She pauses and puts her bag down. She went in there to take out her phone which she then randomly plays with. Annoying me in the process.
“No. You don’t get a say.”
I chuckle, annoyed, frustrated...inadequate again.
“Well...” I say – almost speechless, “...That’s bullshit.”
She looks up at me – with a ‘he swore’ look.
“It just the way I feel.” She says casually. As if I meant nothing to her. She continues to play with her phone. Giving me little eye contact. I turn my body away from her and take another sour sip of my water. No one sips anymore, I thought to myself to quell my anger. It’s true. No one sips anymore. Everyone drinks. No one sips.
I couldn’t contain the anger anymore. I put the drink down with a sharp thud.
“This makes no sense. You make no sense. You fall in love and then the next minute you fall out of love?”
“Love?” She snaps, finally giving me FULL eye contact, “Where did ‘love’ come from?”
“You know what I mean...something special happened between us and is happening right now...you can’t...”
She cuts me again, “Something special?” she chuckles, “Okayyyyyyyyy then.”
“What?” I ask aggressively.
“You live your whole life in a Charlotte Bronte novel. Your credence is ‘Love is all conquering’. It’s a fallacy. Like most writers you’re deluded.”
“You don't think writers are intelligent do you?”
“They're not intelligent - my dad told me never date writers, they're not clever. They make stuff up because of that very reason. They don’t have a basic grasp of intelligence much less possess it.”
“Yeah well my dad told me...fuck you!” I venomously say to her. But quickly elaborate, realising my mistake...”Not literally....just a figure of speech.”
“Whatever.” She says playing with her phone again.
I shake my head in resignation and then look up at her.
“You said writers inspire you. You wanted to write. You love writers and writing.”
“So?” She says in her typical fashion. Not giving a care in the world.
“You’re being a hypocrite.”
“Well that is the benefit of being a professional hypocrite! I can say what I want and then change it!!!”
I shake my head again.
“So everything that has happened you want to just forget it and pretend it didn’t happen?”
She nods yes, playing with the phone.
Silence.
“So what now? We just go back to being friends?”
“Yup. That’s what I want.”
Silence.
“Doesn’t make any sense. We haven’t even given it a try.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Why?” I asked, desperate for some logic.
Her concentration in her phone she barks out, “I just want this. Just friends. I don’t want to really talk about it.”
“We have to. Otherwise it’s going to affect our friendship.”
“Not really.” She says with a lack of emotion.
Silence. I lower my head in disappointment.
More silence. This time it lasts a full 4 minutes. Within the 240 seconds my heart sinks into a despondent shell.
She puts her phone in her bag and looks at me.
“I’m going to go.”
I manage to find the strength to softly reply, “Okay.”
She picks up her bag and stands up with a blunt, “Bye.”
I don’t reply.
“Fine, don’t reply.” She says.
“You haven’t even talked about it and you’re leaving. Fine.” I volley at her in my most moody manner.
“There’s not really much to talk about.”
“Fine.” I irritably reply.
“Bye.”
Ignoring her farewell, I randomly say, “’Professional hypocrite’...that's not even a job.”
She gives me a blank stare and again says bye before exiting.

This forever confusion was day four.

Question The Three Day Cycle (Chapter 14)

"What's with the suit? It’s a joke right?"
She laughs.
When she laughs at me it doesn't hurt that much. In fact I laugh at myself in return.
"No. It’s my new look"
"New look? Are you a show dog?"
"I'm a gentleman now. Didn't you see how I opened the door for you?"
"Yeah don't do that again - its lame. This isn't 1942. I'm allowed to vote and all that. Even though I’m a poor defenceless and dumb woman.”
We laugh in the crowded, well known women’s clothes store. She wanted to meet up and talk again but could only fit me in with some shopping. She "needed" some "retail therapy".
Why?
She never said. As always our conversations were loud and raucous. In this well known pretentious clothes store our noise was out of place. I showed her a pleasant looking red top that she may look good in...
"Are you trying to make me vomit in your face?"
"It’s nice!"
"Nice? Like your suit?"
"Nah my suit is the summit of fashion. It’s the equivalent of a sunny day in a hot country, sipping on water."
"Water? Do people do that? Do they go to hot countries and sip water?"
"Well I do! I don't drink."
"Oh yeah. Cause you had a drinking problem before."
I laugh, "No - I just don't like the taste.
"I love the stuff." she says picking up a white top and showing it to me, "What do you think?"
"Hmmmm so so"
"Definitely getting it then...your fashion taste resulted in you getting that suit"
I brushed down my suit, proudly, with sarcasm.
She then showed me a pair of jeans, dark blue, skinny legs...
"Why don't people sip anymore? People don't sip anymore."
She went into a fit of laughter.
"Is that your most intellectual question?" she asked beyond the laughter.
"It’s a valid question. Why don't people sip anymore? They just drink."
"When did people ever sip?"
"Back in the day..."
"Back in the day when your suit was 'cool'?"
"Hey listen my suit is cool - it’s the rage!"
"The 'rage'?" She laughs, "No one likes your suit."
She showed me some shoes with heels like elevators. Is that a correct comparison? Shoes with big heels, basically.
"Can you even walk in heels that big?"
“Yes, I have legs and a brain."
"You have legs - that's true."
"Ha ha - you're too funny." She walks off slowly, I follow. "Especially with that suit on." She adds.

We wait in the queue for her to make her purchases. 1 pair of shoes, 3 tops, 1 pair of jeans. Skinny. Still talking about my suit.
"No one likes your suit."
"You keep saying that. What do you mean ‘no one’?"
"The clue is in the words - 'no one'."
“Have you done a silent survey?"
"No I am the voice of reason. The voice of the masses."
"You know what, people love my suit...I'll prove it."
I turn to the couple behind us.
"Do you guys like my suit?"
The guy, student looking, hair shaped like a bird’s nest and clothes with holes, speaks first.
"It’s alright actually."
The girl nods "yes".
She interjects.
"Quantify 'alright'"
"Well it’s not what I would wear but it looks okay on the older type of guy." The Student replies.
"Older type..." She laughs.
"Older type? I'm not that much older than you." I retort, "How old are you?"
"How old are YOU?" I ask defensively.
"21 - You?"
"Doesn't matter."
I turn back to her, "See, he likes it."
"He thinks it’s 'alright' and 'okay'. Hardly means he likes it."
"It’s a great suit."
"Alright it’s the best suit ever in the history of suits." She says sarcastically before walking off to the cashier ready to purchase the items with her 'hard earned' cash.

Later, us relaxed in a nice Italian restaurant we talk some more...
"So if I hadn't of contacted you then you wouldn't have contacted me would you?" She asks aggressively.
"Hmmm."
"No."
"I wanted to. But our last conversation wasn't too great."
"So you let the friendship go then?"
"Nah. I just thought you didn't want to talk."
"Nice - how about ask?"
"Okay. Well we're talking now."
"No thanks to you."
"Sorry."
"Sometimes I think you don't care."
"That's not true. I do. It’s just sometimes you're a little stubborn."
"So?"
I smile, "Is that your favourite word? ‘So’?"
"Yes it is. Got a problem?" She says with a wry smile.
"No. Not at all...hate for you to storm off."
She laughs, "That was an awesome exit right?"
"Yeah was just missing some water on my head. Drink in the face and all that. I actually over tipped the waiter with your money just to get you back."
She laughs wildly, I join in.
"Yeah I'm offended by that. Please give my money back you gangster. You're so cool"
I laugh and give her a quick poke.

Day Two

It was the second day of her being back in my life -- for once she allowed me to dictate things.
The time. The place.
I chose a walk on a riverbank with laborious yachts - a bit of culture mixed with a nice blend of modern pop culture.

We walked and talked. Occasionally stopping to let her take a break from her newly brought, excessive high heels. I joked that her heels were like elevators - she giggled - mostly from behind the pain. I walked more - rather sadistically wanting her to feel more pain.
Why?
It gave me a satisfaction that cannot be quantified with just one word. Or a sentence even. It’s just the way I’m wired.

She was different now. More receptive. In less of a rush to leave. More devoted to sharing her time with me. That attitude she previously displayed to me on a whim was now subdued. Still her sarcastic and funny self – but now she was the woman I knew was there. I gave the new her feet a break from walking and we sat on a bench overlooking the river - skies dimming and night about to crawl in. She rested her head and soft hair on my shoulder and we sat in silence looking at the off-crimson skies. THE perfect moment. If the earth swallowed me whole and took away my very last breath I would not complain. For time had conspired and given me this moment that was my most cherished in all my life. THE perfect perfection. Not an inch wrong with the frame. The pinnacle of everything. A love story told backwards always has a happy ending.

Day Three

"I've always been used to getting what I want."
"You're telling me."
"When I was younger if I wanted something then it would be mine. I apparently had this face I'd pull to get what I want."
"Yeah I've seen it a few times. It’s like this." I pull a comical sad face with sad puppy dog eyes.
She smiles and playfully punches me on the shoulder.
"That's a scary face. Don't do it again. My face is more cute. Like a little kitten."
"So you think you can get what you want with your kitten face?"
"Yeah - anything."
"I need a face like that."
Day three of US, as I call it, was her choice. Nice quiet bar in the middle of nowhere.
Swanky but efficient.
Efficient but random.
We sat at the back on the black leather sofa that was big enough for three people. Since we'd been speaking again we'd not stop talking. Constant phone calls - up till 4am every day and now our third meeting. Everything was too perfect.
"I wonder where my path is gonna end?" She asked rather despondently.
"Huh? Why do you mean?"
"Nothing." She replied recoiling.
"No. Go on."
"I just...I really have no idea what I want to do with my life. I studied Maths and got bored and then studied English to become a writer. But since I left university I haven't even written a word. I've travelled but don't feel worldly. I just feel like my life has been rather pointless."
She sits, head down, saddened. I lean over and give her a hug.
A consoling moment.
"You’re not pointless. Your life has not been pointless. You inspire a lot of people."
"Oh yeah? Who?" She asks, teary eyed.
I pause for a full 36 seconds.
"Me." Another pause. "You inspire me. I write because of you. I smile cause of you. I do most things cause of you."
She smiles amongst the tears.
"That suit I brought, the first thing I wondered when I brought it was "will she like it?' - I wake up and I think 'I wonder what she's doing today?' - I sleep thinking of you, I wake thinking of you."
She laughs, wiping away the tears.
"I think I've got stalker-like tendencies..."
"Yeah you do..." She agrees with HER smile.
"I guess I'm obsessed with..."
Before I can finish my statement she places her lips against mine. I kiss her. We share a passionate 40 second kiss. Everything we had FOUGHT about, LAUGHED about, CRIED about became that single 40 second kiss. It felt right.

Then it ended and we shared a smile. But there was something wrong. A brief 5 second silence pause spoke loudly. Something was wrong. Like finding world peace...what's next?

Write The Occasional Poem (Chapter Thirteen)

Memories best told,
Are the ones we treasure as if gold,
When unresolved we treat our past thoughts with a glaze of perfection.

Occasionally I get lost and you give me direction. The hopes of the future I built in my imperfect mind.
A future where we both laugh together every second no conflict or fuss.

Total happiness with us was a must,
In my imperfect mind. A place where my darkest thoughts dwell.
The deep abyss which inks our bad times like a quill.
In retrospect you weren't perfect - just the best thing in my imperfect mind.

Don't Order Lobster (Chapter Twelve)

When a man takes a woman for a ‘dinner date’ on a first date - that's a bad sign. Means he wants her to be a trophy girl. Look good, wear heels and sport that clutch handbag. Potentially it also means it’s a one off - just a bit of time passing. A flurry into self-indulgence.

Taking her to the cinema means she’s boring – he doesn’t want to hear her voice or hear her talk about mundane things; such as the contents of her shoulder bag or, worse still, her wardrobe. After the film has finished you can both talk about how good the film was or alternatively how bad it was. It’s a damn sight more interesting than her.

Finally, a guy can take a lady out for a hot drink, museum or similar. Both are reserved for that woman with deeper thoughts and conversational skills that are worthy of such an esteemed locale. These gals are the ones you place in the ‘potentials’ list!

I took the accountant out for dinner. Breaking the rule of thumb as previously discussed - I saw her as potential....or maybe she was just fun?
Judging by the way she dressed - the clutch bag, dazzling dress, high heels - it was hard to say...

"This place is amazing." She said taking it all in.
It WAS an startling little Thai place with an indoor pond and fake palm trees.
"It sure is. I'm gonna get you to write it up for me as an expenses bill. ‘Entertaining client'."
"Oh yeah that was the real purpose of this encounter."
"Encounter...I was gonna call my book Midnight Encounters."
"Sexy Utopia?"
"That's the one! Well remembered."
"How could I forget? You've mentioned it 100 times."
"Have I? Oops. I'll never do so again."
"Nah - keep doing so. It’s cute."
"Cute? I haven't been called cute in about 23 years!"
"23? How accurate. I've noticed you're always so precise. Do you have OCD?"
"Probably. It’s better than turrets right?"
"Yeah it’s much better I think...SHIT BALLS...sorry that was my turrets."
I laugh nervously, "You're kidding me right?!"
She laughs wildly.
"Calm down - you can't handle my humour can you?"
"I can handle many things. Including accountants with zany personalities - don't you worry your numerical mind about that. What's with the swift jokes anyway? Accountants are meant to be boring."
"Yeah, I don't know, I think I was brought up on a diet of Ritalin."
“I was brought up on a diet of stockpiled food. That's why I'm so neurotic. I have an inherit fear there's gonna be a nuclear war at any minute."
She laughs wildly.
"It’s not funny. My parents used buy food in bulk. Why? I don't know. How? I don't know. My dad worked in a bag factory and my mum as a nurse. Where did they get the money to buy in bulk?"
"Is that question directed at me? I'm an accountant not a psychiatrist. You might want to not reveal so much about yourself on a first meeting...IF you want to make a good impression."
"I don't. I don't care about impressions. That's for the recipient to deal with me. Not me! I'm at an age where making an impression is like audio tape cassette - obsolete."
A small female waiter walks over enquiring if we want to order, we both look at each other with a cheeky glare - we hadn't even picked up the menus yet!
"Can you give us 5 minutes?" She says to the tiny female waiter. As the waiter walks away I watch her - measuring her height with guestimation work...
"How tall do you reckon she is?" I ask.
"What kind of question is that?" She laughs, "As tall as she needs to be."
"She’s abnormally small - like 4ft 10 or something."
"Is that an abnormal height? 4ft 10?"
"Anything beneath 5ft is abnormal. Anything beneath that height and you can start parking in the disabled bays at supermarkets."
"Mr Politically correct aren't you? I happen to think she was cute...Regardless of her height."
"Her height is a contentious issue for you huh?"
She laughs, "It’s not"
"You're very defensive of her. How tall are you?"
"I don't know - 5ft 6 or something."
"With 7 inch heels?"
"I'll put my 7 inch heels in your arse in a minute."
"Really? Foreplay before dinner? Kinky aren't you?"
She laughs wildly - and hides her face in the menu.
"Shall we order...?" The beautiful accountant asks trying to bring some normality to the table.
"When are you inserting the heel? I just wanna assume the position beforehand."
She holds up the menu, "Shall we order maybe?"
We both look at our menus - giggling away.
"3 inch heels by the way." She mumbles to me from beyond the menu.
I retort with a similar mumble, "That'll do the trick. Size isn't everything."
We both laugh - as she cheekily hides her face back in the menu I realise that she could be a keeper. A woman who not only encourages but also compliments my neurotic manners and lack of subtly. Perfect. And just then, as I began visions of her teaching our kids how to use sarcasm as a weapon like their parents, my leg vibrated. More accurately, my pocket. Even more succinctly, my phone - I took a sneak peak at it.

It was HER. My muse.

After 2 weeks of no contact whatsoever - she decides to call me just as I'm getting to know a person infinitely better (for my sanity). Suddenly my dream -like a montage sequence, involving the perfect accountant and me, became my new writers block. It was like your computer when it gets stuck whilst you're watching an illegally downloaded film - it was stuck on the same frame. In my twisted mind, I walked out of the frame and into another film - a film full of more montage shots - this time of me and HER, my muse, and the good times we had previously. No contact in 2 weeks and she contacts me now?

The accountant looks beyond the menu at my face – my face, similar to that of a man who’s seen a ghost, shows no emotion.
“I’ve decided what I’m ordering.”
I answer back – at 25% of the enthusiasm I had all but 3 minutes ago – “oh yeah? What?”
“The lobster and the salad. The salad because I’m a woman. The lobster because I want to see how rich you really are.” She says with THAT smile on her face. Suddenly that smile isn’t as special as it was. Her voice not as soft – it was like within 3 minutes I had sobered up and found out that this beautiful princess was actually just a queen past her sell by date – the queen of England. If you will.
“You okay?”
“Yeah fine.” I reply. Pause. “Just deciding what to order.”
“Okay. Seemed like you were narrating to yourself in your head there for a second.”
“You can hear my narration?” I ask jokingly, trying to act as normal as possible.
“Yeah, I prefer the director’s commentary though. How do I put that on?”
I laugh, but not very genuinely. Suddenly she’s not as funny as well.
“Let’s order.” I say hurriedly. She gives me a look of confusion. She’s realised what’s happened. She realised that this thing we had, although short lived, is over.

I hope she was joking about the lobster - they're expensive.

Prevent People You Know From Wearing The Same Clothes As you (Chapter Eleven)

“What's with the suit?” My agent asks as I walk into his office space – he rises to his feet to take a better look at its magnificence.
“You like it?”
“Yeah it’s a nice suit.”
I give him a catwalk twirl.
“All right calm down -- what's with it? You got a job interview?”
“What? No. I can't wear a suit?”
He chuckles, “Quite frankly, no. You don't wear suits. That's not your style!!”
“My style?”
Interrupting, he changes the subject, “Hey, you done with the book?”
So do I, “Speaking of books...what did you write in my journals I gave you?”
“Nothing. Don't worry. It’s a good book slash journal. We might as well submit this for publishing instead of the poetry thing.” He says, whilst reaching for the journal.
“Ahhh, no. I don't wanna publish it. The book's nearly finished.”
“It is?”
“No.”
“Ahhh for pat's sake! Finish it!” he demands handing me my journal back.
“Why don't the characters have names?
“I don't want them to. I want them to be ambiguous.”
“And do you actually do that shit at dinner parties?” he says laughing and shaking his head. I laugh back nodding yes. While I laugh he takes another brisk view of my suit.
“Wait a minute is this the same suit that the guy was wearing the other day? The one you wrote about in your journal?”
“Yeah.” I say, giving another twirl, “It’s nice right?”
“Yeah. Love it. I might get one.”
I grimace, “You can't get one.”
“Why not?” he asks forcefully.
“Because I got one. We can't both get the same suit?!”
“What are you? A woman???”
“Don't buy the suit. End of story.” I take a seat and put my feet on his desk – as if I had brought the leasehold to his office. I then continue, “Hey, do you know a girl on the 1st floor? An accountant?”
“I know a few accountants - why?” he replies whilst staring at my feet on his desk.
“I'm seeing one from downstairs in a couple of days.”
“Really? That’s great! It’s about time you got some lovin' - nice ass?”
“What does that matter?”
“It matters. So does she?”
“It’s okay.”
“I knew it! A guy’s gotta look right?” I don’t answer.
“How did you meet her?”
“Women’s toilet?”
“What?”
“Long story.”
He looks at me with contempt. I continue, “You ever been in the women’s toilet? They got nice gadgets in there.”
“They do?” He asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah – they got like these sanitary towel bags for getting rid of...”
He interrupts, “You know what I don’t wanna know.”
I continue, “I wish I had a womb then I could make use of such contraptions.”
“You wish you had a womb? What are you on about?” Disgust upon his face carries on talking, “Seriously man some woman action might help this writers block. By the way, whose this girl in your journal you keep writing about? She seems like a problem.”
“She's just a friend.”
“A friend? Then why do you keep talking about her? Over and over? My advice - give her a miss. She's a problem. She'll make you go cuckoo.”
“She's like my muse - she inspires my work.”
“All you do is write about HER. It’s boring. Find a new muse that helps you finish the book. This accountant sounds promising.”
“Sounds promising? I haven't told you anything about her.”
“Finish the book.” He snaps.
“I will.”
“Finish it.” He knocks my feet off his desk, “And don't come round here uninvited. This isn't a social club. We're not frienda. This is a client stroke management scenario.”
“Stroke?” I say laughing, “You keep using the word 'stroke' - You might want to calm down, you’ll have a stroke in a minute.”
“I'm not joking!” He replies chuckling but trying to hide it, “And also the stuff I wrote in the journal you can't use any of it. Its personal stuff. It was like therapy for me.”
I stand up all ready to leave, “Okay.”
“And, seriously, what's with the womb thing?? You’re worrying me!”