It was as follows. . . . . . . perhaps I should detail the relationships first in order to put into context.
MR NM: Was the first boyfriend I ever held. Was the first male hand I held besides my fathers, or the sweaty capped beer washed adolescent male for the night. I was at the end of my final year at school, 17 years old or so, and he was 23 years. He gave me Ugg boots for my 18th birthday. He came from an Italian family. He was a laborer but had glasses that made him look like an architect.
MR SH: Was the man to help me move on from NM. I was 19 and he came 29. This fact came out a month into it- we spoke over 'intellectual topics' and careers in writing. He dyed his hair blonde. His stomach was hard and he had soft skin. His friends were trendy and made sure you were aware of this. He would look down on others constantly. Both our families had a sibling who suffered from a mental illness severely. Whenever he danced he looked like a fuckwit. Perhaps this was due to his moves of punching the air and bopping his head, or maybe just because he took himself seriously.
MR NM: Lunch at a Vietnamese cafe. It had been two years or so, since we broke up. However we'd catch up every month or so, always doing the same thing we'd do when we were together. These included getting coffee and cake at our favourite Italian cafe, eating his home made lasagna in bed or going for a drive as he'd play his favourite music to me.
MR SH: Attempts were made by him after I broke it off to remain friends. I rejected these attempts. Once we caught up. Despite telling him that we "both had enough friends and didn't need anymore" there were a few text messages, emails and missed calls. I once spoke to him on the phone, I enjoyed this. Perhaps it was the physical distance between us that allowed this .
After both the encounters I realized something:
The ex - be it boyfriend or girlfriend- falls into the category of a past favourite food.
When you visit the dish again, there are two paths you can find yourself trekking.
Read on....
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