Ex-Boyfriends
Ex-boyfriends
By Rosalind Wyllie
Robert tastes of lager, of freedom; he never bores her.
She likes the way he moves, the way he never changes himself for anyone or anything. The way he forgets to ask how her day was, forgets all the important things, remembers the trivial.
It amuses her, angers her, he reminds her that she is alive.
They took a boat trip. Just a few miles from the mainland to the Farne islands and he threw up the whole way there and the whole way back. He didn’t complain, she didn’t mind. As he dangled his head over the side of the boat he was giggling, She likes that about him.
Other men would have insisted on her mothering them, insisted that they turn back the boat and return to shore, never reaching the island. Other men would have been embarrassed, angered, muttered endlessly about the damn trip and she would have turned back the boat, spent the day apologising for the rough seas, for suggesting that they go in the first place. Later she would have regretted not seeing the famous island puffins and only remembered the argument.
Robert laughed, insisted they continue, that they see what they came to see.
He forgets her birthday, but remembers the kind of beer that she likes. Remembers that she doesn’t like dry roasted peanuts, just salted.
Dave bought her flowers and gifts, telling her hourly that he loved her. And she arranged the flowers, accepted the gifts and said she loved him too. On Valentine day he sent her seven different cards. He would grumble at her when she hoovered during TV soaps. Tell her she talked too much when she was drunk. He came to bed without brushing his teeth, got angry with her when she wouldn’t kiss him. He would start a row late in the evening when she was tired, when she agreed that he was right he would start another, until she ran from the room in tears, then he would say he was sorry and tell her that he loved her.
Robert resists drama, when she asks if he loves her he smiles and says “You silly thing”.
Tom bought her a brand new top of the range Mini Cooper, a sign of his love. Every Saturday morning he would wash it for her. He would clean and shine the car. The neighbours commented on how generous he was, such a wonderful man. Grace drove the car as if left in charge of a new born baby. Tense, anxious, terrified in case something should happen to it. The responsibility overshadowing any delight at the CD player and the multitude of dials. The car became their nightly topic of conversation.
“Enjoy driving the car today?” Tom would ask.
She would nod enthusiastically night after night, too guilty to tell him she preferred her old Mini. She spent her hours at work worrying that someone would dent, scratch or in some way damage the car, the car that represented his love for her. She knew he would see any hurt to the car as a reflection of her lack of care for him.
Robert hates cars, hates to drive and has never commented on her Ford he doesn’t see it as relevant.
Sometimes late at night when she’s been drinking too much, talking herself into corners she forgets what she was saying. Robert jumps from his chair and kisses her on the mouth. Quickly, clumsily as if he couldn’t help himself and she blushes, embarrassed by how wonderful he makes her feel.
Peter placed her in stockings and basques and told her she was the sexiest woman alive. Trussed in black lace she paraded and pouted for him. Collecting deep red lipsticks, top shelf magazines, erotic videos. She sat naked on a chair while he lay on the bed looking at her, pleasuring himself. He positioned mirrors in every corner of the room, took photographs and illicit drugs. He wore her underwear on the nights that she was away and called her for self gratifying phone sex.
Robert wrinkled his nose when she asked if he wanted her to wear stockings and heels in bed.
“Why?” he said.
Andrew read science fiction comics and books on military history. He explained to her the origins of European politics, told her she should look into anarcho-syndiclism. He had serious views on serious issues. When the revolution came he wanted to be ready. He used a swiss army knife to open tinned foods and opened beer bottles with his teeth. He ironed his jeans before they went out to the pub, used handfuls of hair gel and complained that she tumble dried the towels without softener and made them stiff.
Robert makes her walk in the countryside, stepping over stiles and slipping through hedgerows. He laughs at her when she says she is tired, pushes her hair from her face, rubs his nose against hers. Says “Come on, only another three miles”.
Robert takes her book from her hands and reads the next few chapters aloud, giving each character a different voice. He lies down on the sofa, his head in her lap while she reads the next few chapters to him. He refills the ice trays and refills her glass. He remembers to bring a pint of water to bed with him.
Tony had his friends over on Sundays to play computer games. They would set up camp in the sitting room, drinking Vodka and Whisky, making lewd jokes. Tony would pat her on the bottom and send her out for more crisps and cigarettes. When she said “No” he told her she was selfish, spoilt and snobby. That she embarrassed him in front of his friends. When she asked him not to stub out his cigarettes in the plant pots he said she was fat. When she asked him not to belch when they were eating he said he hated her friends.
Robert wakes her in the middle of the night and takes her outside to lie in the cold grass and look up at the stars. When she asks him to name the constellations he says “Just enjoy them, forget the names”.
He isn’t interested in her ex-boyfriends or what she did with them. Just in her, just in now.
Grace thinks of her ex-boyfriends often, then takes Robert’s hands and kisses each finger in turn, holding them tight.