Belinda lived with Gary for three years. They met at the 25th party of a friend of hers called Emma. Gary was standing in the kitchen, tall, dark tousled hair and scruffy t-shirt with ill-fitting denim jeans. Belinda felt an exhilarating shiver the moment they touched hands and he hugged her in welcome as if he owned the kitchen and all it contained.
He asked her out a week later, an infuriating week of waiting for the call. She became instantly besotted and he moved into her apartment after six months. She was the one with the career, the success, the money. He was between projects.
Belinda preferred tidy, her clothes neatly hung, her shoes in bags sorted by colour and height. She persuaded Gary to put his few belongings in a box and keep it to the left, at the back.
They had three feverish, frenzied years of living, partying and sex. Belinda was on a high, her singing career took off. She showered Gary with gifts, smartened his appearance, bought him gold watches and paid for his car. She was worshipped by the public and when at home, she worshipped Gary.
But Gary was a wanderer, a renegade, a rebel, a womaniser. The old story, I hear you say. He remembered Emma better than Belinda did. Belinda had lost touch with her friend Emma, but Gary hadn’t. He took Emma for a spin in his car.
But here’s the twist. Belinda was besotted, but no walk-over. She found out, of course. And she hounded him out. She booked him a taxi, then stood over him as he cleared his stuff. Didn’t take long. Everything he owned was in that box on the left of the closet. She listened patiently when they were outside in the yard, waiting for the cab, listened as he pleaded his case, as he said she was the fool, that she’d never find another man like him. Ha! She could find another one in a minute, that was for sure.
“Get out,” she shouted, “and don’t go thinking you’re so special,so unique, so one-of-a-kind. You’re not. I’ll have another you by tomorrow.”
With that he was gone, no tears, no lost sleep, forgotten. On to the next.