In the middle 1990s I had a sort of a thing with a guy, I will call Martin.
My relationship with P was on the rocks and was a real disaster and I found solace and excitement over some months with Martin when he had a spare evening free from his busy lifestyle.
I liked Martin.
He was witty and intelligent and loved art house movies and theatre and good food.
He took nothing too seriously but was always clear that he had a long term partner at home who he adored.
Playing away was always acceptable but only with a chosen one ( or two)
And Strangely I felt flattered.
Martin gave away big bear hugs as though it was your birthday everyday,
He played Chess exceptionally well and liked to read novels aloud.
He laughed a lot.
Our haphazard relationship ended when I met my husband to be, but at the end of the first lockdown we met each other again in London and in Chester and in Sheffield and it was lovely to feel the same about him albeit with sore knees, bad backs and jovial visits to the loo in the middle of the night.
Last week I found out that he had died.
And only a few days ago, through a mutual friend, I found out that Martin had taken his own life.
It’s his funeral today.
from Going Gently https://ift.tt/ocgFXzu
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