He can't deny that he's a little sorry to see her disappear so fast though. It felt just like it used to. He'd forgotten how much he missed it.
And then he sees her response to the last question. His hand, carrying his Scotch, pauses on its way to his mouth, and he feels a bit guilty – somehow, reading this when she's not in the room feels a bit like prying. Less like a police investigation, and more like snooping in someone's knicker drawer when they're out.
But there's not a chance he's not going to read it. So he does, and his heart sinks a bit. There's nothing there that he wouldn't expect, really. She's the sort of woman who would value all that stuff in a bloke – and on reflection, he thinks he could tick at least a few of the boxes. Not that he's looking to be anyone's husband,but y'know. He'd still be interested in something, if she was.
This list though – it doesn't have any of the other things that he'd list as his main attributes. It sounds like she wants a nice...well, that's it. A nice bloke. And he's not, it doesn't matter which way you twist it. She's always telling him he doesn't listen. And she might say she wants a bloke who can ‘acknowledge their emotions', but that probably she means she wants them to cry or something, not shout louder and hit things. People.
He sets the paper down and finishes his drink, deflated. It's always going to be this way. She's white wine from New Zealand, he's bitter from Central Manchester. Worlds apart. He doesn't know why he bothers holding out hope that that'll change.
no subject
He can't deny that he's a little sorry to see her disappear so fast though. It felt just like it used to. He'd forgotten how much he missed it.
And then he sees her response to the last question. His hand, carrying his Scotch, pauses on its way to his mouth, and he feels a bit guilty – somehow, reading this when she's not in the room feels a bit like prying. Less like a police investigation, and more like snooping in someone's knicker drawer when they're out.
But there's not a chance he's not going to read it. So he does, and his heart sinks a bit. There's nothing there that he wouldn't expect, really. She's the sort of woman who would value all that stuff in a bloke – and on reflection, he thinks he could tick at least a few of the boxes. Not that he's looking to be anyone's husband,but y'know. He'd still be interested in something, if she was.
This list though – it doesn't have any of the other things that he'd list as his main attributes. It sounds like she wants a nice...well, that's it. A nice bloke. And he's not, it doesn't matter which way you twist it. She's always telling him he doesn't listen. And she might say she wants a bloke who can ‘acknowledge their emotions', but that probably she means she wants them to cry or something, not shout louder and hit things. People.
He sets the paper down and finishes his drink, deflated. It's always going to be this way. She's white wine from New Zealand, he's bitter from Central Manchester. Worlds apart. He doesn't know why he bothers holding out hope that that'll change.