Drinks, conversations

Late last week, San came back to London.

Thursday was a strange day, first I took a 90 minute lunch break in order to hot foot it over to the west end and meet a glamorous Charley for lunch. I say we met for lunch, but what amounted to something like a 30 minute journey to/from my office in both directions left us with little time for frivolities such as food. Instead, I led her aimlessly off down Oxford Street in search of any random pub. And they don't get much more random than a pub named "The Cock" that didn't sell any recognisable or traditional brands, instead only imported European ones. It was still cheaper than local pubs to me though, which was good enough. The pub was small and badly lit, and contrary to how you might expect from its epithet was frequented by what appeared to be labourers on their lunch break. We barely had time for one drink before I had to leave again.

Back at the office nobody seemed to notice I'd been gone about twice as long as normal -- nobody was frantically searching for me, nor had even commented or asked after me, apparently. I don't know which was better.

Towards the end of the day I got a message from San, asking if I wanted to meet her for a drink after work. I told her sure, on the condition she came to me and was at the bar for six. I knew perfectly well I wouldn't be leaving the office before six, and that the pub at the station was at least 10 minutes away. I was still there for about 15 minutes before San arrived, and since it was a sunny evening half of the city was having the same idea about a swift one before going home. I missed my intended train, talking and drinking with San in the evening sun -- although again, it was just one hurried drink.

On the train home I was inspired to text San. I told her that all she needed to do was admit she had made a mistake [dumping me] and that she was retarded for me, and maybe we'd take it from there. Of course, she was unwilling to say any such thing. We talked back and forth and came to no firm conclusions other than that there are obvious feelings still there, but neither of us wants to get hurt again nor were particularly eager to get back together. This left us unsure as to what exactly we -- or I -- did want that was any different. So we continue to see each other here and there as friends and talk a lot but don't know anything more than that.

San sent me a message today telling me that apparently her Mum didn't realise we'd ever broken up. Now I think about it, it stands to reason -- I was never quite sure what to say when her Mum would mention to me she hadn't seen me around much recently. I never wanted to say "Since your daughter dumped me, you mean?" but it still seemed an odd thing to say, with San having lived in Maryland and Leicester more than London. It makes more sense now. Apparently she was bemused why we still see each other, why anyone would stay friends with their ex. She probably doesn't know why we share a bed when I stay either, for that matter.

And after Fiona's message the other week I did get around to talking to her. She called me again the enxt night, and I missed her call when I didn't hear the phone ring. I sent her a message asking her to call again; and she did. I was sat in the garden of the pub in the dark with my friends, so when she called I wandered off, walking about and occasionally sitting down on tables on my own while we chatted. It was good. It felt like old times, just talking about nothing -- my work, her work, all the mundane things -- and laughing together and laughing at each other. Eventually she had to go, and the end of the conversation was more difficult -- not knowing what to say other than "bye, then". I told her not to leave it two years before she calls me again this time. After I hung up the phone I noticed it was a full moon, and was tempted to send her a message mentioning it, and how it will be seven years on a full moon this June since we met.

But I thought better of it.