What an honour it is, i think, to exist here in this relationship with her.
fulfilled
to the brim.
with enough love to know the difference between a bitter woman writing novels about the loneliness of her own self-fulfilling prophecy and the romance a man could never match. like the one exercise for her, alone.
i am not lonely. i am alone.
perched at the bar spot at the restaurant pleasantly surprised at the comfort experience im having with this bar stool. my wine glass is brimming with sparkling water and TWO (!!) wedges of lemon - in this economy? i think the bartender is trying to flirt with me. im 10 months alcohol sober and this is my hack and he didn’t shame me for it.
french fries on my left, pasta on my right, book and journal stacked between. i started with a french salad, and ate it carefully, slowly, with a knife and fork because someone told me that the french do it this way and i quite like cosplaying a woman with decorum. i often don’t have much of that when im eating. behemoth is more my lane.
i eat the fries 2 at a time so as to satiate societys desire for night time reservations to be reserved for at least 2 people. French fries, in my mind, should always be eaten alone or ordered twice, and almost never shared. they’re too good to be polite with. the last few fries in any bowl of chips lay limp and cold like final survivors of a dinner table carnage because no one is feral enough to just eat the damn things. and yet, everyone is wanting that last goddamn chip. so why not skip all the bullshit and order a serve for every person at the table and indulge in some public privacy without the need for manners or the polite decline of the last chip in an effort to seem…. under control? anyone who declines the last chip is a liar anyway. myself included.
i spoke to three staff members before i was seated at my surprisingly comfy bar stool. all three were either surprised or delighted when i confirmed the reservation was for 1 and 1 only, and that 1 was me. my girlfriend. i know what a lot of people who are looking over at me are thinking because i’ve heard the literal words leave many a mouth before. “whats a pretty woman like you doing all on your own?”.
so glad you asked.
Remember at the start when i said “what an honour it is to exist in this relationship with her”? she is me. i’m in the relationship and i am also the relationship. i participate in it but im also the one who waters it, checks in on it, shows up on the hard days, implements change and any shifts that need to happen. the hard uncomfortable chats no one wants to have? yeah i facilitate those too. i also have to hear them. im here alone because ten times out of ten, my dates with her are better than any date a man could take me on. but cynicism aside, i also dont see the point in waiting for a reason to experience the experiences we want to have because it ‘needs’ to be experienced with someone else. we reserve a lot of things for couples and sharing. we think that self-care is face masks and getting our nails done and shopping online. no sweetie thats just capitalism and those big dog men who sit at the top creating all our insecurities from thin air and selling back to us our ‘solution’. sure, someone could ask me out to dinner but then i wouldnt be here, having an absolute TIME writing in my journal, uninterupted. a full serving size bowl of french fries for me and only me, pages of my book going down a treat like a glass of red wine would (if im being totally honest). but i can read here, within the cacophony of a full restaurant with every table occupied by 2 or more people, consuming the contents of dylin hardcastles words (you should really read language of limbs) because i am alone, unbothered, unphased, with her, just hanging out.
to make my own romantic experience without the risk of a bad date and their leaky energy sitting next to me, is one of the most liberating adaptations of adulthood. i dont have to do the awkward of-course-we’re-splitting-the-fucking-bill dance at the end, or get home and regret that i wasted $75 on a Brazilian wax, and the equivalent to $18 of my skincare creams, and too long stressing over my outfit, and washing my hair only to split a bill with a man 50/50 when he ate 70/30 who didnt ask me a single question about myself. only to not get fucked right. only to wish i had of just taken myself out.
to me this is what freedom feels like (in the most privilege sense): no makeup, baggy jeans, baggy bed top, 3 course meal, book, journal, pen and sparkling water (with 2 limes!!!). and not a single photo to show for it because i never pulled my phone out. ill pay, for the food i ate with my own money (i call this reinvesting in self), i’ll thank the bartender who made me feel so supported, cared for but not annoyed, and i’ll make a little joke about the double lime wedge being a treat in this economy. he’ll laugh and i’ll tell the owner whos been floating around all night that they’ve got the best bar stools i’ve ever sat on and that their barista is amazing because there’s nowhere to hide a in a decaf long black. that one was the best one ive ever had.
maybe my tendency to over-romanticise things is actually the byproduct of having agency and not a tendency of ‘over’ doing anything. anyway, i’ll throw my leather coat on over my jeans and borderline pyjama top, grab my esse lights (cheap. under-the-counter vogue slims for those at the back) light one up as i exist the venue and drape my scarf twice around my neck. i’ll walk the block to finish my cigarette and arrive back at my car at the last drag. i’ll put on whatever music i like to listen to at this time of night and sing as loud as i want, all the way home. and when i get home, i’ll have a long, drawn out maz and cum all over my dildo and let my favourite vibrator drive me over the edge for the grand finale, soaking my mattress in the juices of her (me) and i’ll be able to surrender because theres a water proof mattress protect under these sheets. a man could never be so prepared.
why would i make space for another relationship when this one is so so fucking good?