Ending in Tears

This past few days hasn’t been fun overall. On Thursday Clive definitively dumped me – he didn’t approve of that melodramatic description, but it’s strictly accurate. He’d been distant for a few days since the weekend, and I asked him if I’d done something wrong. He denied it at the time, but a couple of days later, after a long and exhausting day at work, he told me when I popped into his flat on the way home, that it was over.

I felt empty and tearful, but was composed. Initially I was relieved – I had, after all, not been completely comfortable with things. But yesterday, I finally realised that it meant a great deal to me, and I almost broke down.

Friday evening my brother came. Saturday night I went out with Adamene, the first time she’d been round in months. We drank Champagne (I was able to share my passion, a bottle of Lanson ’97 and then the Bollinger of the same year), followed by rum (two modest Cuba Libres, followed by a pint each of the same. Then we swigged Passoã from the bottle. I re-did her makeup, perhaps a little unwisely, then we set out – after midnight. I have very little memory of the hours until 4am, when I lost her in the club. Next thing I was hammering on Clive’s door, trying to get in. I assumed he wasn’t there (he’d said he’d be going out that night) when I got no reply, but carried on, kicking and battering until I bled and one of the panes of glass was smashed. I passed out at home.

Yesterday, therefore, started hard. He had been in – in bed with another man, so it would seem – and had heard me, but not the breaking glass. He’d forgiven my actions before he knew the full extent of the damage, when he went ballistic. I was still hung over and terribly emotional, and so was utterly distraught. It’s taken until this afternoon, many dozen texts either way, to establish a peace and near-normal relations. But he has unequivocally denied any possibility of our going back out together – something I’d never have expected to request, but the denial of which caused me to break down at work today (I went to the toilet before anyone noticed, I think).

The door, which seemed so important yesterday, amounts to the £50 or so repair fee I expected, but my life… I was reluctant to enter into this relationship – and I did so largely because it was what Clive seemed to want. But he’s called the final shot: he spent sleepless nights deciding, and has had time to adjust. He has what he ultimately wants – or at least, he has the grace of being able to know it was his decision. For me, it came from nowhere pretty much. I had begun to make tentative plans, to envisage it going on into the New Year, to open up to him, and get used to specding lots of time with him. And now it’s been taken away, and I am devastated.

The fact that he had arranged a date with another man the day after breaking up, and that he admits to having slept with and having spent the whole weekend with this guy doesn’t help. I’m still in shock, but he’s moved on. I joked that he – with all his suitors, admirers, stalkers and friends – would have found someone new by Monday (today). I was joking, but it doesn’t seem so funny now it’s true. It the only thing I can pin on him – though much as I’d like to ask whether this other man was the catalyst, whether he’d lined him up in advance, or if it’s all coincidental, I cannot. The question would upset him, and the answer I fear would upset me.

We’ve made up, as best we can. We’re "friends". How hollow that sounds now.