True Story - The Finale

More Mr. M. This is the final phase of the story and I hope it will remain final forever. But there's still another part. After having giving Mr. M the psychological finger, vowing never to see him again, I relented. With good cause. Mr. M was suddenly orphaned, got extremely sad and called me. He actually called my dad because he was so sure I'd give him an extremely unladylike 'fuck off' answer on the phone. So he cried to my dad, who felt very sorry for him. Thus my dad called me and asked me to call him because, he said, Mr. M was in a terrible state, and if only I could love another as thyself. Hmmm well ok. My mother's words were pounding in my head, do as you would be done by. So I called and was ready to wait until he picked my call. But I didn't wait, it was almost as if he had his phone in his lap. Perhaps he did. But I will forgive him on this one. He really was sad, and I have known what sadness does to the human being, if I had things my way, nobody would be sad anymore and just the 'sad'; word in itself would be kicked out of the dictionary. But I don't have it my way, so the next best thing I could do was listen, comfort him a bit, feel very bad inside, and listen some more. But he seemed content with that. And it didn't stop at that. A friendship emerged, not without the sexual innuendos, but he seemed to have learnt his lesson and his boundaries, and if I could make a person that little bit happier, then I just braced myself. Florence Nightingale was nothing compared to what I had to do, had to say, had to listen to, had to everything. But that was ok, because I was getting results. Mr. M started smiling, then laughing the odd laugh.... he started becoming himself again. That is when he dropped the biggest of bombshells. Because although I had been very firm and clear about the just friendship, I think he was getting losing his hearing, perhaps through old age, perhaps through clogged up ears. So he gave me a proposal which went something like this... since he wasn't getting any younger, and since he had inherited a tidy sum as well as property, then we should throw an engagement party, go to London for a holiday, come back and get married. That simple... to him. I could have thrown up. Me, married to Mr. M and having to live in an old village? And marrying Mr. M would also have meant marrying his family, seriously. The sex would also probably coming as a threesome, and God wasn't the third party here. So I said nothing. No actually I said I wasn't feeling very well (which was true), had him drive me home, told him I'd let him now, closed the door, and never let him know, never saw him again. What a bitch? Well, perhaps so, but no bitch wants to be stuck in an old village. Very simply, no bitch wants to become a wife. Because one that line has crossed than it's be tied to a kitchen sink, slaving over a stove... and I don't know how to do those things, do not even want to learn. Which probably means there is still a bitch inside, although nowadays looks may be deceiving. I never answered to the mountains of Mr M's texts. I always screened his calls, and he wasn't even brainy enough to call from an unknown number. That was it. I never though about him very often, but the sparse times that I do, I make sure I remember him in ugly bermudas having to lift his face to talk to me. Because 5 inches sometimes are too many inches. And size always matters.