The International Writers Magazine: Breaking Up

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Its Over, Get Used To It. • Dan Bond It’s funny how the programme ‘Friends’ does not provide the best backdrop to one of those defining moments in teenage life. Here I was, face to face with my first real girlfriend, giving my first ever attempt at the ‘I don’t think its working’ routine, and having it littered with the occasional stint of canned laughter, or the distracting image of a man physically stuck in a pair of leather trousers.

So yes, here I was. Or, here we were. The first big break up, and, from what I could tell, it was going okay. No tears, no fighting, but that one glaring omission from a typical break up, a final decision. For the weeks pre-break up, I had hardly got a word out of Louise. I hardly saw her, hardly spoke. I had been with my friends again, and had the best summer I’d had in years. I didn’t want to give that up again for the stress and anger this commitment was now causing me. And as far as I could tell, she had been just fine without me around, so I was anticipating a quick, painless and mutual decision. How wrong I was.

She got up to leave, acting strong and defiant. Somehow, she had turned this around so that I was in more of an emotional state than her. Her mum was coming to pick her up, but she wanted to leave anyway. She couldn’t bear being near me and imp standing, thinking to myself "what an absolute prick I am". Now I will refrain from sharing the gory details of the story, but I was now officially single again, and when she closed that door behind her, there signalled the end to the most concentrated period of growing up I had ever done. I felt proud. Proud of what id been through, the time we were together, the break up, everything. It was done now, that first relationship that I was sure was going to send me on my way to bigger and bet...

A knock on the door and an all too familiar silhouette became apparent in the glass. Considering that half an hour before, this girl had been my girlfriend, I was scared shitless. Tentatively, I walked to the door and placed my hand on the handle, opening it as slowly as I could, weary of the fact she could have simply gone next door and stolen a knife or something. But no knife, good start, not even any tears.

"Can I have a glass of water please?" she asked me. An odd question, but I was hardly going to deny her.
"'Course you can. Why? Wwhat’s up?" I replied, ushering her in the door to the surprise of my parents, who I assume had stood in the kitchen listening to the previous conversation.

"I’ve just been sick up the road." She told me, casually, expecting me to greet that as normal. And so she came in, I got her water, and we then sat down together, no talking, just sitting. All nice and covered in sick.

Looking back, I can’t help but laugh at how dramatic the whole scene had been. The frustration at a TV programme I could have easily switched off. Or how I simply could have been plain and honest and not try to live up to the Hollywood break up scenario where it’s either all fine and okay, or she will seek revenge and murder me. I think maybe vie found the middle ground now, so any Hollywood directors who might never read this, sick, that’s what break up’s are really about.

It might be over, but I don’t intend on getting used to that.

© Dan Bond December 2008
bondd002 at medway.org.uk

Dan (The heartless Brute) is studying creative writing at the Universityof Portsmouth

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