A way of working things out

Relationships have a way of working themselves out don’t they?

In the early days you find your own language, your way of being. You spend little spats of time together flirting with the idea of something more, not knowing what will happen. And then you fall into a groove.

This posting on Jemima feels like we’re getting to know each other again.  I’m nervous.  I’m not sure what to make of us these days.

I didn’t expect to feel the need to hide behind the second person but this post, that is the official one below, is just that: me peeking out cautiously from under a blanket.  But then it’s early days in this renewed relationship.

Perhaps we’ll converse about life in poetic prose for a while as we get cosy with each other. And you can play the cocky observer at the next table saying, “Those two lovebirds over there, they’re on a date. It’s obvious—look at how awkward they are”.

But we’ll work it out. We’ll find our language, fanciful prose or otherwise and we’ll grow to be …

Maybe we’ll grow to be some funny odd unit that speaks ...  Perhaps we’ll grow to simply speak our mind, whatever the format. Whatever the case I hope we grow to be endearing.

*

There is an itch that comes. Then goes. And comes again closer to your birthday.

Your notice the second hand on the biological clock.

You meet friends for drinks at the pub and your pupils dilate when you play aeroplanes with a kid called Kingston.

You drink pints and talk about the same things as usual but there is a child on your friend’s breast and he’s cute and sweet and smiles. And you were present for the nine months before and these nine months after and since everything feels even you figure what if …

What if …

And the child cries. And after conversation of music and life and dinner and beverages you unlock your bike from the fence by the pub.  Brush away the rain from the bike seat.  A changeable Melbourne day.

And you cycle home

and you figure things are fine either way. If or not.

Either way. They’re fine.