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Addict
Join Date: May 2005
Location: England
Gender: Male
Posts: 138
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Having a Girlfriend Makes You Mature
Sometimes, when I get in from work, I real like crap and I hate pretty much everyone around me. But on Fridays my girlfriend, Charlotte, walks to my house after her college bus drops her off, she sits and has a cup of tea with my mum for an hour whilst they talk about whatever it is women talk about when men aren't around. Usually, when I turn up at 5pm, my girlfriend gets a kiss, my mum gets one on the cheek and my dog gets fussed for about twenty minutes before I retire to the living room with a can of beer (just one for being so brave all week). For the next half hour or so, Charlotte and I sit in front of the TV watching whatever is on until dinner is ready.
Now, I don't know why, but I enjoy having dinner at the table when its just me, Charlotte and my mum. I think it has something to do with the fact that Charlotte had a very strict, very polite upbringing, and she eats at the table - so, when she's round mine, we all eat at the table. When Charlotte's not there, and it's just me, mum and John (the stepdad) we don't... and it seems less civilised. Like if we could be having dinner somewhere else, we would. When eating dinner at the table, there's nowhere else I'd rather be. Conversation between them is usually about what gossip either of them has picked up during the day, meanwhile I wolf down my food because I'm so damn hungry from working with fruit all day and not having had anything to eat.
After dinner, Charlotte and mum do the dishes - which has become routine for them. I tried once, for about a running week, to make them sit down and relax while I did the dishes, but I never even got close to the sink. Its like, somehow, they bond through washing up... wierd, but at the same time its incredibly cool. I listen to them joking and messing about as I search the internet and the papers for a new job - I never have any luck - and when Charlotte comes back into the room, she doesn't ask whether I found anything, she just stands behind me, kisses the top of my head, then bends and kisses my cheek and wraps her arms around my neck - nothing ever felt so comforting.
Before Charlotte, I would make the best effort to be gone from the house before John got back. After my first few weeks with her, she convinced me to stay home until he arrived and try to be sociable with him. I don't like John. John ruined my teenage life. In my eyes, my mum and dad were happy until he came along with his "Financial Manager" name badge, his BMW and his pinstripe suit. Really, I know my mum and dad were never happy, and the only reason they stayed together as long as they did was for my brother and I. Still, I don't like John. When he gets in, he complains to me straight away about how my mum is "sat on her arse" instead of making his dinner. All I can do is sit and think about how I hate him slagging off my mum, and if he were anybody else I would've said something by now. Charlotte sits and holds my hand all the way through. I try not to speak, I just give him fake smiles and nod every now and again. As he complains to me about everything in the house - the hoovering, the dusting, the cooking, the washing - he thinks I'm laughing with him, but everytime I laugh my hand tightens around Charlotte's. For that short time she is my ball and chain. My handcuffs. When mum finally brings his dinner through, its not a moment too soon, and I'm up and away, into the kitchen for a smoke whilst he sits and eats his food in front of the TV, talking to Charlotte every now and again through a mouthful of meat and vegetables. She must be feeling sick.
Every Friday is usually the same, or a similar variation to this. But last Friday was different. Last Friday blew the head gasket. When Charlotte when the toilet, I thought nothing of it. When John went upstairs to the bedroom, I thought nothing of it. When Charlotte still hadn't come down after fifteen minutes, I started to think something of it. And as I made my way up the stairs, I could hear John telling her how much of a useless tosser I was, how I would never find a better job, and how if she wanted she live in the slums for the rest of her life then yes, she was with the right guy. Charlotte was stood against the wall, John stood in front of her, and I could see she couldn't get far enough away from him. She saw me, I saw her, but she didn't see me take the stanley knife I use at work from my pocket until I brought it up to John's back. I saw the flash of fear in her eyes, but I didn't care. John yelps and spins round, his hand shooting up his back. I can only smile as I hold up the strip of pinstripe I have just cut from his jacket.
Relationships are funny things. Some people you hate. Some people you love. Some people you hate and love, and still want to be with. I wonder, if I wasn't with Charlotte, whether I would've thrown John down the stairs instead of just cutting his jacket. True, cutting his jacket wasn't exactly a mature thing to do, but some people you hate. I really think this girl is making a difference.
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Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.
- E.L. Doctorow
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