Then fumbled.

Photo by Andras Stefuca.

    ‘I was fumbled,’ I say, matter-of-factly yet incredulously. ‘That’s what happened.’    ‘You weren’t fumbled! Or maybe you fumbled him?’     ‘No, for sure, this is what I’ve read about. The social media phenomenon. It’s a fumble. He had me, right there! We were messaging every day, planning to meet up again, then… he was gone.’    ‘Ghosted.’    ‘Ghosted initially, then fumbled. Those are the verbs. The ghosting was when he disappeared for a month. The fumble was when he came back, and said nothing,’ I put my lips around the metal straw, and slurp the icky green juice that’s supposedly going to hydrate me to infinity and beyond.     ‘The fumble was when he watched the first slide of my story, and swiped off. Maybe because he realised it was me? Who knows. The fumble was when he left my message unread, not on read.’    ‘What about when you watched his within seconds of it going up?’    ‘That was the algorithm’s fault. Although I really need to stop just tapping through everyone. I need to be more careful.’    ‘It’s important that you learn from this experience.’ Earnest nods and sarcasm.     ‘Thank goodness I got that Airbnb refund.’ 

The next day I’m on the early train home, scribbling in my notebook. Yes, the same one. I pause to watch the tentative 8am sunlight slipping over roofs and streets as we slowly depart the sea-salted city I used to yearn to live in and be part of. I don’t quite see that happening now, but I’m alright with that. The situationship we’ve got going on is satisfying me just fine. I come and go as I please, and don’t feel pressure to participate in anything beyond my means. I have roots elsewhere now, burrowing through the dirt as I sit here and think, taking shape in a fistful of keys and a hamper packed with treats. 

I look back down at my pages. I’ve frantically written down observations made on my way to the station; a couple of friends, maybe something more, falling into a hug on the short hill, her on tiptoes, fingers scrunching the fuzzy 45 on the back of his jumper. I caught a young blonde dye job peeking at my arms when I sat down, several minutes before the train set off, and I realised that soon it will be that time of year again, when my skin is more exposed and its living art is set free from its woollen winter slumber. 

I turn a page back. I re-read his poem. I drink my £4 coffee and stare out the window at the rolling fields that will soon turn into pebbles and I wonder what happened, until I don’t any more. 

Thanks for reading,

G. x