Tuesday, December 12, 2006

I'm Not Going Back There Again, Me

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I’m not going back there again, me. No way. You should’ve seen her last night: off her face; a complete fucking wash-up. She said to me that she wanted a real man. A man who could put the booze away until the cows came home. A man who could match her, drink for drink, blow for blow: a strong man; a man who could put up with her. A man who didn’t bruise too easily.

I’m not going back there again, me. No fucking way José. She’s mental. She attacked me with an empty bottle of Claymore last night – just because I wouldn’t drink it with her. She finished the whole bottle. She said to me that only real men drink Claymore; that Irish whiskey is for poltroons. Before I could explain she went for me; she didn’t give me a chance. The bottle hit me between the fucking eyes with a thud – luckily for me it didn’t shatter. Then she demanded I fuck her. I didn’t, of course. I got the hell out of there. Sharpish.

I’m not going back there again, me. Not on your Nelly. I’d rather be right here writing this, sitting at my desk in my lousy office with the other drones, trying to get away with doing as little work as possible, waiting for lunchtime, that dreary respite. I’d rather be in the miserable meeting with my line manager at 11 o’clock I’ve been summoned to. Anything. Invoicing, filing, data-entry, even photo-copying: the simple day-to-day activities of a dogsbody. I don’t even mind everyone staring at the purple bruise on my forehead, between my tired eyes. I don’t care what they think about me; I never have. They can fucking stare all they want. It gives them something to focus on. It helps to pass time. It helps to make the working day crawl along that little bit quicker. It’d be funny if it wasn’t all so meaningless. Really.

I’m not going back there again, me. Not if you fucking paid me. She’d only be drunk again. She’d only want to start another fight; demand I grope her cunt or something. Probably chew me up and spit me out. She’d say to me I’m worthless, useless, rotten and boring. She’d laugh in my face, ridicule me and belittle me; filch the money from my pockets. She’d pour warm beer over me, spit on me, call me a twit and poke me in the ribs – just for fun. She’d hurt me until the bruises covered my body like ruined petals and then she’d point me to her door yet again. I’d leave her fulfilled. She’d banish me until I came back knocking the very next day, safe in the knowledge that I am weak, maddened by her; that I don’t know what else to do. Then she’d just let me back in for more like nothing had happened. Happy.

I’m not going back there again, me.

Lee Rourke



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