Nostalgia (Part 6)

“I used to date a psychoanalyst,” I said to no-one but the empty space between us. “Sometimes it helps to talk to a complete stranger. There’s no emotional investment or involvement; you can be divorced from it, the pain. Shirley Valentine used to talk to the wall; ‘hello wall’, she used to say in her Liverpudlian accent. I am a poor substitute for a wall but if I can help, I am at least willing to try.”

She made no sound and no movement. Shit, what was I doing, diary? The minutes dragged by and still she made no sound, no movement, except for the gentle rise and fall of her breasts with each passing breath. Shit, diary, I had to look. I had to check that she was still breathing; I don’t know how someone with MS dies! The one thing that I do know, diary, is that people are disinclined to breathe when they are dead.

“What time is it?” She asked suddenly without opening her eyes.

I looked at my watch.

“Seven-thirty,” I replied.

She got up from the lounger with the aid of the cane and, turning towards me, asked: “Do you fancy a pizza. I have not had pizza in such a long time; I end up throwing so much away. It all seems such a waste with the many so hungry people in the world. Perhaps we could share? I am sorry; I am being  thoughtless, as usual. Would you be able to stay for a bite to eat?”

“Yes, I can stay if it means that you do not have to throw perfectly good pizza into the rubbish bin.”

“What would you like?” She asked.

“I’m easy. Just get what you would like. I’m not the one who has been depriving themselves of pizza for an age in order to save the planet!”

She disappeared into the kitchen/diner. I stood up and stretched my legs. I could hear her on the telephone from the garden: ‘That’s right, number 34. Pizza to go; large, thin crust, veggie with pineapple. Oh, yes, four will be good. Bud. 40 minutes will be fine.’ This was truly a woman after my own heart, I thought. Hallelujah! At last a shared pizza without pepperoni! Why did guys always think that beer and pepperoni in any way made a good combination?

She shuffled out into the garden again.

“It will be about 40 minutes. I ordered a...” I did not let her finish.

“Yes, I know, I heard. For someone who doesn’t order pizza much, you seem to be on very familiar terms with Bud. Oh, and how much was it?”

I was unaccountably getting excited, diary, well not excited as such, more like ‘my nipples were exploding with anticipation’. No, this wasn’t a date; just someone very nice (very, very, and too, nice and beautiful to boot) being friendly. God, I hadn’t sat down with a woman over any kind of meal since Natalie (accent on the second syllable please - bloody French) and what a feckin’ disaster that had been; never try to get involved with your colleagues at work or French electrical engineers, however cute! It can only ever end in catastrophe.

“£13.50, I think he said but please, my treat. Please? Bud? He’s not someone! He’s something. I got you a couple of beers, I thought you might like them.”

“I’m a chauvinist,” I replied. “I don’t expect women to pay for more than half of a meal. So, half of £13.50 is £6.75; two Buds, let’s call it two quid. With a tip for the biker, that makes my share £9.75.”

I rummaged in my pocket and managed to find a £10 note; I slapped it on the end of my recliner.

“You can give me the change later,” I quipped, somewhat lamely. “Just joking! Thanks for the beers. You can’t have pizza without a beer. It’s like having beef without the Wellington; salmon without the croute; chicken without the chasseur; sex without the foreplay.”

Diary, why? Why do I engage my mouth a full two seconds before I engage my brain? Hers was a genuine slip; mine was just a lurid attempt at a very cheap ‘chat-up line’. I refuse to believe that I am so desperate! She is just too nice to be subject to that!

She smiled, at least it seemed like a smile to me; perhaps it was just an embarrassed grimace.

“At the very least, I am pleased to know that you think that foreplay is an integral part of sex,” she said. “Do you enjoy going down on a woman? I have read that it tastes like stale fish. I’m sure that this would not be very nice. Perhaps men only do it because ‘GQ’ tells them that they ought to. Or, perhaps I should try it for myself. You can watch if you like. Do you prefer it doggy-style or with the woman on top. Or perhaps you favour anal? Like all men, I’d bet that you would like a blow job right now! But perhaps, with all the bad experience of women, you’re now openly gay? Or into small boys? No? Rubber? Leather? A nail through your penis?  No, I know exactly what you would like. It’s the same the world over; football, pizza and a beer.”

“Naila, please,” I replied. If a man can ever be said to have his tail between his legs, I had mine between my legs and in my mouth. “You could have just said that it was an inappropriate remark to make. You didn’t have to go overboard. I’m sorry but nails through, you know, makes me go weak at the knees.”

“Dominic,” she said. “I think that I’m beginning to like you. You are like a little puppy; frightened that you are going to get a tap on the nose for being naughty. I’m sorry but I refuse to wear a badge saying ‘I’m teasing you’ when I am. Come, let’s lay the table.” She paused, motionless for a moment but then waved her hand in front of her face. “Unless you fancy eating out of the box?”

“I don’t know of any other way to eat pizza; pizza and plates don’t make a happy couple and, when you include knives and forks, well, it is just an accident waiting to happen. I’ve been to PizzaExpress! Do you have a small table to put the box on; we could dine al fresco.”

“Yes! Come with me”, she shouted. “I need you to carry it.”