Running with scissors

I won't be recreating the wheel when I say there's something intimate about driving down a motorway in the dark.

Me and this boy never have silences. But last night there was an uncomfortably long silence, and I noticed he was throwing covert glances my way. It was all going to end in tears really, wasn't it? Allow me to be frank and describe our relationship du jour like a really wet floor when you're wearing new shoes. One step out of place, you know from experience, is all that it will take for you to go tumbling. The kind of tumble where you really hurt yourself, the kind that leaves a big wet patch on your clothes, so that even after you've picked yourself up and brushed yourself off, everybody who sees you can tell whats happened from just a glance.

"I need to take you home," he said suddenly, after several false starts.
"What? Darling, I'm dossing with you, remember?"
"No, I need you to go to Stuart's."
"No! We made up and its sort of lovely, but I'm keeping my distance for a while."
"Look," he said, slowing down and weighing every word, "I've just realised something I'm feeling, and... Just let me take you to your boyfriend."

Long silence. His hands on the wheel were turning white at the knuckles. I was watching the lights of the cars tearing past and sitting on my hands.

"Oh fuck. I'm sorry, but I'm going to say it, Imogen."
"Don't say it."

Another long pause, in which there was aimless driving, and I thought he'd listened to me. And then he decided to take us through a carwash.

"I still love you."

I went white and did my world renowned goldfish impression. Mouth open, lots of blinking.

"Joel, you can not be doing this to me."
"Do what?"
"Yes, ok, I... but there are other people involved now, and... I... well. Oh no."
"I have spent the last year wondering why I ever broke up with you. I have to say it."

I spoon-fed him the Imogen Clarke Relationship Theory; Part I - Specifics.

"Im, I can't stand seeing you when you're not happy, with those big green eyes. They go all wide when you're feeling sad and--"
"Stop it."
"I have to ask. Are you happy?"

I don't know. I'm either at a towering high, a maudlin low, or totally mono. Emoting beyond that gets difficult.

"Say you like someone, I don't know, let's say six out of ten, where ten is good and one is bad," I said slowly, watching the soap suds glide across the screen and weighing the value of every word in my quest for clarity. "Thats not enough, is it? I mean, there's the other four, and--"
"-- I'll give you the six," he said, twisting in his seat to watch my face, "but then there's how we got there, and why, and all the little binding stuff, which is at least a four--"
I folded my arms and slumped back in my seat as he continued twisting my analogy. "You bastard. You did this on purpose so I couldn't get away."
"Get out of the car," he snapped, the sudden change in tone making me jump.
"Pardon?"
"We're going to do some cleaning," he said, voice taut and brittle, easing the car out of the car wash as he spoke.

Does he know how to win a girl over or what?

I hovered and I watched as he cleared all the rubbish out of the back seat.

"No, Im, come here, give me a hand."
"What?"
"This is the little binding stuff. You know when you go through a really bad break-up--"
"--Yes. I do know, as it happens, Joel."
"-- And you do all the little things, like drinking good wine, eating expensive ice cream and having a long bath - it's not an end in itself, but they all add up to the end result."
"Are you sure a bad break-up analogy is the way to go here? I'm still recovering from your efforts last time round, buddy."

He shot me a bratty look, then shrugged. "The point, Cupcake, is, I'm going to be chivalrous and let you have your six. For now. But... little binding stuff." He came round to where I was leaning against the car and gave me a kiss on the cheek, morphing seamlessly into his best Best Mate pose. "Now, let's be off," he said, flashing me a smile over the top of the car.
I got in, and slid him a little sideways look. The thing with this boy is, he shifts so effortlessly between facets I never know quite where I stand. Which, generally speaking, is great. But then he goes and does feelings at me. And when I'm being poached, I get a touch pissy.

"So, Joel darling. Just how is Sarah?" I haven't met her, but that would be his girlfriend. "How much are we talking there?"

"Don't do it."
"No, do tell me. Three? Four? Go on, I want to know."
He shrugged. "Two or three. I guess. What is this?"
"Second degree."

He didn't say anything, but the road suddenly became the most interesting thing in the world. I ignored him for a while, head still reeling, then gave in - I've been giving in to him ever since I can remember - and turned to look at him. He was biting his lip, hands, in regulation ten two position on the wheel, were turning white. Blue eyes wide.

I sighed. "You," I told him, reaching out and touching his arm, "are complicating my life."