"How do i get past this?" I say to Bec. We ares standing at traffic lights clutching juices. I am close to crying in confusion. It had been months and it still feels accute, raw. I'm still not over it. I cant make it go away.

"Then why aren't you just with him?"

"Because he doesn't want me. He doesnt want me to be the mother of his kids! He was quite specific"

"But he comes by in the middle of the night and tells you he loves you!"

"Thats different to wanting to be in a relationship."

"Well that's ridiculous. That doesnt make sense" She was genuinly baffled.


We would spend these lunchtimes stomping around the CBD catching up on gossip and squeeling like teenage girls. She was beautiful, elegant, prissy, endlessly tactful and wouldnt be seen dead in flats on the Terrace. The greatest perfectionist I ever met with a million secrets and a trapped bad girl somehwere inside trying to get out. She had a penchant for bright watermellon lipstick, obscure bands and lofty whimsical phrases like "I never did mind abotu the little things" or "he's keeping his Melbourne edge". I loved catching up with her, especially Mondays. It was usually a hilarious debrief about the madness of the weekend, never sad stuff. Bec was all for champagne and sparkles and putting the bad stuff in a box. Sometimes I spin around, see a waft of plaitnum blond hair, smile and take a breath to greet her... and then she turns around I remember that she is gone.

"That's just how it is. I just want it to go away. Ive never been here before. How do you make it go away?"

"I guess you get over it by… by living well. Live well."         

It clung to me like a sick koala, for months. The dude didn't help with his dropping-by-at-midnight-wasted-with-declarations-of-love-and-an-attempt-to-get-the-leg-over-every-now-and-then thing.

"You can't keep doing this" I said, the third, but not the last time, as he stood in my kitchen clutching a chamomile tea, swaying slightly.

"I know" he said.

"One day you will do this and I won't be alone." I said.

"I know."

I meant it. I was surprised it hadn't happened yet.

"I don't know what I want Caitos. And thats not good enough for you."

"No, its not". 

In my broken hearted state in the early days I somehow got out of bed each morning, became militant about strange little things, went to dance class at 5.30am with an ageing ballerina whose raspy voice and dodgy 90s music were quite comforting. Her studio was decorated with pictures of herself in her skinny hey-day, in leotards, head bands and leg warmers. I didn't take up smoking again, remarkably. Maritime Guy retired and I spent three weeks emptying his office. Nightly, from 7pm onwards, blaring music after midnight, I would go through his files, throwing most of it away, keeping articles and precedents of note. He was a hoarder, it turned out. I inherited his work which was alien and therefore interesting, and if I wasn't cleaning out his office I was writing pilotage licences till the wee hours. 

I mastered a number of sins during my brief but salient flirtation with dating in those winter months. Saint Augustine was my patron. "Please Lord make me pure... But not just yet."

I was so obviously not ready to date. My behavior ranged from passive agressive to obnoxious to outright rude. I experimented with just how rude I could be to people and see them still come back for more. I told terrible annecdotes that I found hilarious and shared unhelpful observations with potential suitors about how they came across. I walked out mid-conversation if I found it dull. I really hope some of those people find it funny in retrospect. I couldnt be bothered to learn names. Really Good Looking Sociopath, French Guy with Big Ears.  Dumb RichGuy With Boat. Boring Golfer Guy. Giant Walking Cigarette. Aspergers-ADHD Guy. Spells like a Dyslexic. 

And then, quite by accident, I met The Lover.