I cannot even describe how my heart felt when she walked in. This will not stop me trying. Part ‘wow’ part ‘phew’. She’s not a fatty! Am I shallow? Fuck yes I’m shallow. Is she beautiful? Fuck yes.
If you’re wondering, I had a nap since the last post.
I don’t mind telling you (why would I, it’s my book), that she looked gorgeous. Little blue dress, the sort you could lose a hand up. Short hair. Eyes that said stop wanting to fuck me. Bad Dirk. I feel guilt, to an extent, because I get to be one half of our relationship and she’s only a quarter. Because she has another half, ya know?
It’s 8 years ago and we’re in Venice. I’m jet lagged so go for a wander, on my own, and get lost. As planned. There’s a large square there. People that aren’t me would remember – or look up – the name of the place in preparation for writing about it. Well shut your mouth. Anyway, I’m tall (unreasonably so) and was wearing a jacket so didn’t look as thin (unreasonably so) as I am. I imagine I appeared quite imposing. The generalization I had formed about the Venetians from the seven I had come across was that they were all as cool as cucumbers. Not rude, not aloof. As cool as cucumbers. Venetian number eight and I rounded the same corner, in opposite directions. Nose-to-nipple, the poor old man squealed, just a little. And then returned instantly to a state of cucumber. I liked that I made him squeal.
My brother in law was a quick-stop-laffa. Baldwyn is his name. It’s aboriginal for ‘great warrior with great hair’. That’s called staying in touch with your heritage. It’s also the name of the town where he was born. I call that getting confused about which label is for which text box on the form that you fill out at the hospital. For all I know his Mum wrote their address as 107 Highview Street, Malcom. I said he was a quick-stop-laffa. He still is, I imagine, but he’s no longer my brother in law (it is he that is gone, not my sister). He would laugh, genuinely, loudly, heartily … Then stop. Instantly. Every muscle in his face would go from having the time of its life to just hanging there like doonas on a washing line. It was unnerving.
And this is what the Venetian was like. A squeal, (and since you weren’t there, a minute flailing of the arms) then nothing. Are you alone? Try and minutely flail your arms. I did just after typing that and quite enjoyed it. Go on, treat yourself, have a little mini-flail.
The Venitian man’s squeal lasted for perhaps 200 milliseconds. Erica and I a few years. On and off, you know how it goes. When I recollect now, it’s all good. When I recollected shortly after the last time we were together, it was all bad. I assure you I am the only person to have experienced that phenomena in the history of the universe.
I took a good solid relationship with a nice, smart, fun, pretty girl (I will call her ‘Milk’) to make me realize what Erica was. And if I don’t get Erica, if the right combination of words and thoughts and memories and imaginations don’t take place. If she doesn’t end up in my arms, then god take mercy on the soul of the next girl that I convince myself I would be happy to spend the rest of my life with. I should have told Milk that up front: I would be happy to spend the rest of my life with you. But I didn’t. I told her I want to spend the rest of my life with you.
If you’re reading this, Milk, firstly, what the fuck. I didn’t know you read Dirk Masonly? I digress. If you’re reading this, sorry for thinking I could relax and just be with someone who was maybe 8/10 (as a partner, not some crass rating of looks – that’s a two-part scale). But I couldn’t relax.
Also you annoyed me.
Enough of the girl comparison, I fear I’m sounding more and more like a jerk. No wait, it’s my book/blog/billboard, I’ll be a jerk if I damn well please. And I might as well get this out of the way here and now. Cunt.
It has just now begun to smell like poo in my apartment. Excuse me while I go and investigate.