Fail #2 - a piece for uni back in 2005 - apparently my writing went downhill from here...

Three minutes ago I told the biggest lie of my life. One word. One monumental mistake of a syllable exploding from my mouth, and then it was over. I snapped my lips shut, feeling a vacuum expand inside my mouth, sucking my tongue dry. My stomach lunged towards my chest, trying to escape through my throat and suddenly I couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. I averted my gaze, staring at my knuckles turning white as I gripped the sides of the table. My favourite restaurant. Not anymore. It is forever tainted, polluted by guilt. In one fraction of a second, one episode of temporary insanity, I have changed my life and my preferred eating place forever.

‘Will you marry me?’
‘Yes’

Never to return.

The car seems stuffier than usual, I can feel the buzz of static raising the hairs on the back of my neck, hear my heartbeat drumming in my ears. He burbles happily, blissfully unaware of my teeth grating against one another.

‘Can I open a window?’

Fresh air slaps me in the face and I feel my cheeks, swollen with blood, soften and relax. I watch as the lake fades into the distance, morphing from a crazed animal, passionate and alive, to a solid mass of grey. Such is life. It takes a while for me to realise it’s raining. A drop of water hits my eyeball and shocks me back to reality. He wants me to close the window now. The upholstery is getting wet. It’ll dry. I need the constant whistle of rushing air to fill my silence., to drown out his excited chatter and I still haven’t finished that pile of ironing. It’s waiting for me at the foot of the bed. A crumpled mess of Oxfam goods and hand-me-downs. Oh joy, my life is so fulfilling.

We pull in at our house on Terrinton Road, the middle of nowhere, Cumbria. Chloe from next door is pulling down the sheets from her washing line. I wonder what the point is when they’re already wet with the rain. May as well take them down when it’s dry, save yourself from getting soaked. Then again, one mad laundry-based rush is probably the closest thing to excitement she has in her no-frills and no-thrills life. But I cant talk.

He’s struggling to get the key in the lock, juggling with bags of quaint Cumbrian ornaments and other such clutter we bought despite good taste. But no, he doesn’t need any help. It’s ok, I’ll just stand here in the rain, why not?

And we’re in. The dog flies towards us, hell-bent on being the first one to piss me off. I should have bought a plant. Just like a pet only it doesn’t shit on the floor. He’s shouting now. At the dog, not me. He storms into the living room, flailing fists full of ripped up toilet paper and blabbering on about behavioural lessons. I tell him she’s creative but he doesn’t see the funny side. I’m starting to enjoy tonight. I give the dog a stroke and go upstairs to find that evil ironing pile. Yep. It’s still there. I had almost convinced myself it had been left so long it would have sprouted legs and walked out by now. I guess I could leave it another few days and see what happened. Yeah, take a risk, stop being so anal, live a little. I know I’ll be back here doing it in half an hour but I decide to humour myself. I could be a rebel, its just so much easier to follow the rules. Cuppa tea, that’s what I need. Maybe a garibaldi since its such a special night, or, hey, why not go all the way and crack open the chocolate hobnobs, I can afford to put on a few pounds now I’ve sold my soul to Dan the brick-layer. I shudder at that thought. Maybe I’ll add a shot of Jack Daniels to my tea tonight. Get quietly drunk and call the whole thing off., but that’s going to take a lot of PG Tips.

Downstairs Dan is fiddling with the video player. He thought we could watch a nice film. I think we’re going to miss Emmerdale but I don’t say anything. Joyce at work will fill me in tomorrow. I cant help noticing the silly smirk on Dan’s face, I hope I’m not about to sit through Robocop 2 again, he knows I won’t complain. The fuzzy mess of black and white on the TV screen crackles away and is replaced by a warning - "Adult entertainment" - Oh dear God no. Dan’s eyes widen and flicker my way, he gives my arm a loving squeeze and turns his face toward me. His eyes look as if they have been drawn on by a demented four-year-old with ADD, puppyish desperation, they say "Stroke me". He reminds me we’d agreed to try something a little different, spice things up, he says, and since its such a special night…THIS is his idea of special?! Dan-the-bricky-romance-specialist surely knows how to treat a women on her big night. When did life get so twisted and surreal?

I’ll blame it on our Dave. The brother. The evil being that set us up on our first date. "Dan’s a good guy", he said, "He’s loyal". He didn’t mention the wirey hair growing from under his collar, the pug-nose squashed into his otherwise featureless face, the bulge forever hanging over his belt and swinging a little when he walks. I was never the pretty one but it wasn’t until I met Dan that I realised all hope was lost.

There’s a spider in the corner. If I look long enough from my place on the sofa it looks like art. Thin, hair-like legs clutch the creamy walls. Black and cream and soft shadows where wall meets wall meets ceiling. I think it’s beautiful but I won’t tell Dan. His art is made of the grotesque wails escaping from the TV, oozing plasticity and sleaze, I hate to feel so seedy. I hate to sit in this dog-hair room, watching beads of sweat form on Dan’s temples, reminding myself to relax my legs when I notice I’ve been perching on the edge of the seat for over an hour. I was an average student of average looks and average ambitions. Get married, have kids, drink tea with the ladies at work. But now that I’m 33 and about to fulfil those dreams, I no longer want the average life. I want to get out, I want to move away. I know it’s just a pipe dream. Why try when you’re bound to fail?