He texted last night.
Four minutes after midnight.
Darcy.
He asked me not to text him as he is 'keen' on her.
Putting this in perspective:
He asked me to tell him about my results, so I did.
He asked me to tell him I was 'safe' before and after my initial encounter with Blue, so I did.
He wanted dates of my free time only four weeks ago, so I sent them.
He told me of his ramble home with memories of my heels through churchyards as we laughed on the phone.
Never have I bombarded him with texts...
In fact one or two ...max...over a week is the rate.
Angry and hot tears later, I sent him a reply that he judged me too harshly.
Why does he still ensnare me?
I have not jeapordised him in any way.
I am angry. Hurt.
Fuck.
Just fuck right off.
You bloody self-flattering bastard.
Fuck off.
I remember too well the scent, the feeling, the texture and height of gates and cold air of Soho and Bloomsbury. The languid tactile moments in the Reading Room, under the pale blue dome and the sauntering amongst excited crowds at the British Museum.
Montague Street.
Standing on the corner, kissing in the rain.
Well yes,I do hope it works out, but please, don't tell me that my texts will be inexplicable and uncomfortable. You have fucked her for less than four weeks; has she access to everything already?
I know the reason; you told me; you agreed.
You need to move away, remove yourself from me.
I have no idea why I am such a catalyst for you.
No idea at all.
