Weekend in London

I vividly remember twelve days ago, sitting in what she said was the oldest wine bar in the world when, all of a sudden, unprovoked she started saying something irrelevantly mean about me. Like the conversation, my reaction was slow, which gave her an opportunity to divert what she was about to say in a different direction.

My eyes that warned her she was about to hurt me, saw her tongue briefly being held in hesitation. There's always a reason if someone chooses not to save face. In this case, it felt like she wanted to test out hurting me, to see how uncomfortable it would make her feel. As the unveiled insult was consciously pushed into my silence, my train of thought was conducted away from the situation, towards the carriages that would take me away from the city. They weren't due to depart Euston until the next day.

Over the next 24 hours, we didn't leave each other's side, as arranged. At one point we had sex that threw the hotel room's phone across the floor. In the cold light of day, she ended too many sentences calling me “baby”. Optimistically, I hoped she was doing it to remind herself why we were there in the first place. Cynically, I feared it was a tactic to keep me around despite the way she was treating me. I'm pretty sure there's some truth in both explanations, but in any case, the obvious insincerity made my skin crawl.