Scorched Earth
Yesterday morning I pick up Ina, an ex-girlfriend from Iceland at Liverpool Street Station... woke up at 7am and am definitely feeling a little rough. As soon as I see her, I expereince a mix of mild warmth and indifference... not a good sign. She's staying with me for the next three days...
Friday I got a voicemail on my NYC mobile from my more immediate ex, Halie. She was in town and wanted to get together. We hadn't spoken one word since our break-up almost eight months ago. And we're not going to be able to for a while longer, due to the 3,000 miles between London and New York. Nonetheless, hearing her voice made my stomach turn in a knot of vicious uncertainty.
i'm through with ex-girlfriends. Going home is not the solution. I'm adopting a strict "Scorched Earth" policy with exes.
In the meantime, I have to entertain Ina for the next few days... we go to see Wimbledon, a film whose biggest pleasure derives from an Englishman actually winning the great tournament... after that we hit a dinner party in Knightsbridge. An interesting mix of people: actors, journalists, even an ever-so-welcoming host, a history professor that seems from a different era than his 27 years indicate.
We drink wine an try to be merry, while nagging thoughts of the past weave through my brain like snakes slithering through an Indiana Jones trap. People visit the bathrooms regularly for their Columbian pick-me-ups, and all dance like only English people can.
Friday I got a voicemail on my NYC mobile from my more immediate ex, Halie. She was in town and wanted to get together. We hadn't spoken one word since our break-up almost eight months ago. And we're not going to be able to for a while longer, due to the 3,000 miles between London and New York. Nonetheless, hearing her voice made my stomach turn in a knot of vicious uncertainty.
i'm through with ex-girlfriends. Going home is not the solution. I'm adopting a strict "Scorched Earth" policy with exes.
In the meantime, I have to entertain Ina for the next few days... we go to see Wimbledon, a film whose biggest pleasure derives from an Englishman actually winning the great tournament... after that we hit a dinner party in Knightsbridge. An interesting mix of people: actors, journalists, even an ever-so-welcoming host, a history professor that seems from a different era than his 27 years indicate.
We drink wine an try to be merry, while nagging thoughts of the past weave through my brain like snakes slithering through an Indiana Jones trap. People visit the bathrooms regularly for their Columbian pick-me-ups, and all dance like only English people can.
posted by Unknown at 11:54 AM
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