(King Street, Newtown, Sydney)
I waited outside the clothing store red-faced. I wasn't angry. I was angry. Yes, I was angry. Carlos was inside browsing for outfits for the party.
He made me wait for everything. Daily. The sleepyhead makes me wait until noon every Saturday 2 get breakfast at Cafe C. Trouble is, I don't even like the place - but he loves it. Then he spends more time flirting with the waiters than talking 2 me.
He also makes me give head first. Then when we 'pound', as an Italian friend calls it, I have to wait for him to come. That routinely takes 45 minutes. Chafing.
Dis outfit will be sexxi, Carlos said in the store. He held a magenta tank top against his torso.
Well hurry. The party starts in two hours and I still haven't ironed a shirt, I said.
Don worry poo poo. I'll be quick.
I hate when he calls me poo poo. I threw my backhand in the air, spun and walked out without speaking.
Watching punks and fags and bums walk King Street calmed me.
My eyes meandered over to a Will Coles sculpture glued against a sandstone wall. Seeing his work surprises me and I took an involuntarily shortsharp breath. The only time I've done that was when I saw Daniel Johns smoking outside an empty cafe in Darlinghurst on Christmas Eve, 2008.
Carlos made me tired. He made me feel powerless. I was used to it though, like when your parents get angry on cue after you drop a glass on the floor, or they catch you pissing in the backyard.
But I felt a change coming on. I was sick of the comfort this relationship gave me. It was time to get out.
Know how I know? Each time Carlos says he loves me I feel nothing.