Wednesday, 15 February 2012

A disgustingly sentimental piece of schmaltz....

I haven’t mentioned my boyfriend on here as of yet, and I suppose it may come as a surprise to some people* that a woman with vaginismus would actually be able to have a “relationship”.  I’m going to go into the particulars of all of that in future blog posts, but suffice it to say he is actually OK WITH IT ALL (GASP).
I’m not going to go into all that now though. Today I just wanted to share a horribly sentimental little story about him with you. I know; sick right? Sometimes I disgust myself. But you know, women with vaginismus are allowed a bit of schmaltz from time to time too…..
He was already waiting for me as I arrived at the pub, finishing his cigarette and slouched against the wall, the picture of insouciance. He leant down, presenting me with a cold, darkly stubbled cheek to kiss, and smiled slightly in welcome.
“Alright darling”, he said, blowing smoke over my shoulder and dropping a casual hand to my hip in welcome. In another era he would have been a film star, smouldering in black and white, simply and impeccably dressed, a trail of hopelessly lovelorn girls left weeping in his wake. The smile extended a micro-millimeter and just touched the corners of his green eyes as I grinned foolishly up at him.
“You’re so short!” he said, as a way to fill the silence.
We had both agreed that we would not bother with Valentine’s Day, the gifts or cards, or any of the painful trappings of love-made-commercial, but we had decided to go for a drink at our local pub after work anyway. Alcohol is alcohol after all, regardless of the day.
Another second and the display of nonchalance vanished. He stepped away from the wall, suddenly a little shy, a little unsure of himself, and gestured awkwardly behind him. It was wrapped up with baby’s breath in garish, heart-covered cellophane and leaning, implausibly tall, against the pub wall. Drawing deeply on the cigarette and hunching his shoulders against the sentiment behind the gesture, he said with a wry smile in his South London accent:
“It’s from a proper florist and everything!”  
As I squeaked and exclaimed over the thick velvet petals, so darkly red as to be almost black, he shrugged dismissively, but accepted the hug of delight with a sheepish smile and an embarrassed toss of his soft black hair. I scolded him for breaking the pact, even as I realized that I was delighted with this show of everything I had considered gauche and tasteless about Valentines Day. He pulled an accompanying card from the pocket of his black blazer. The picture on the front may have been awash with hearts, but the subject of the scene demonstrated a candid knowledge of what he knew I would most like. Despite his protests to the contrary, he had actually put a little thought into this.
I threw my arms round his waist and grinned up at him, as his teeth finally flashed in his first, full smile of the evening.

“Well.” I said “It’s lucky I got you something too then, isn’t it?”

*By some people, I mean a few, very odd people.

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