I cleared the house on Sunday night, got my son into bed, asked the lodger to give me a bit of space so I could have "a difficult ex girlfriend conversation" in private.
I was at a works do the night before with a dozen or so colleagues. My ex-lover was there. I was tired and anxious about my son. I decided I couldn't be arsed to go over and chat, risk the uncertain welcome. She spoke to me briefly around midnight, by which time my head was thumping (sinuses, not booze) and I felt very flat. Two thirty that morning she texts, saying it was a shame I'd spoken to everyone but ignored her. I slept on my reply. Next morning I text back - I'm tired of trying to second guess whether you'll be approachable or not. A few more texts, not nice ones, and we agree to meet, Sunday night, to talk it out.
I spent the day working out how I'd tell her that all I could stand from now on is a semi-distant, office friendship. Trying not to get angry about all the times she's cut me off, saying nothing, leaving me to guess what's going on. What I'm planning might be harsh, after all we've been through, but at least she'll know where she stands. One night of being ignored has pissed her off, I've had twelve months of it.
She comes round, we sit nursing drinks on the sofa. She tells me why she needs to be distant. It's what I've guessed - we seem to find it impossible to be close without flirting, she doesn't want to play with my emotions, there are lines we can't cross. We agree to a professional distance from now on.
And then....
And then it just seems wrong. She loved me and supported me fiercely when I wouldn't stand up for myself. There were times she she was desperately unhappy and had no-one, no-one to talk to but me. I ask if she's able to talk now to her female friends.
"Yes. But ultimately we're all on our own, aren't we."
She's a much more private person than I am. Of course we are on our own, before our conscience, in front of our god. But I can't imagine facing the difficulties in my life without my friends to talk, moan, rant or cry to. I can do it because I know they'll do the same to me. And I want to be that kind of friend to her.
"It's nearly six years, you know, since we met," I remind her. We're holding hands, looking in to each other's eyes. It's so comfortable.
"You're woven through my life like a thread," she says.
Like a thread. The last eighteen months, it's felt like the fabric has been pulled out of shape, fretted, catching like silk on a nail. Since Sunday it has felt comfortable, like a warm scarf.
But do I want more? Can I avoid crossing those lines? Well, maybe this is telling - I feel settled, not breathless. Happy not ecstatic. I'm choosing comfy warm scarves for my thread similes, not sensual skin-close silk.
We'll see. It's got to be worth a try. And if we can't knit up this ravelled sleave of cares, if we're still snagging threads and worrying at loose ends, then we shall give up but know we've tried everything.
