The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 28

A week later, Louise and I had our first official row. Phil came into work wearing a tight black tee that showcased his muscular torso. It was clear he worked out regularly. Something Louise saw fit to point out. As did many of our female colleagues. Though only Louise fondled his flexed biceps.

Emasculated and pissed off, I simmered for the rest of the evening. When Louise opted to make our muscle-bound co-worker the primary topic of conversation in the car on the ride home, I sat in the backseat, grinding my teeth. After Keith and Nicky alighted, Louise asked why I had a pus on. I told her.

"Jesus, Aaron, we were having a laugh. Like you've never checked out some chick since we've been seeing each other. Grow up, will you." It was a reasonable point. Except, I hadn't looked at any girl. I had thought about Robbie. Every day we were together.

This uncomfortable truth spurred me on to the defensive, my default position. Louise suggested I hang with my buddies if I was going to be throwing a moody all night. I agreed, slammed the car door, and sprinted up the road after Keith and Nicky.

We stopped at a petrol station and filled up on cold cans. I slammed a beer on the walk to Keith's house. Cracked open a second the minute my ass sank into the sagging armchair.

There is something about an armchair, even one with springs shot to bits, that reminds me of a throne. Combined with the rapid onset of drunkenness, I started acting all high and mighty, demanding cigarettes and talking over people. The lads took issue with my behaviour and cut me down to size.

"Listen to this prick. You've been with Louise three months and you still haven't closed the deal. You queer or what?"

"He couldn't score in a brothel with a fistful of fifties."

"What kind of man are you?"

Simple answer; the lowest kind. The type who would use an intimate moment in his relationship to score points. Of course, that's not what my brain was thinking as I triumphantly declared, "yeah, we did it." Before dazzling the boys with salacious reports, a sleazy tabloid journalist would have been proud of.

I woke up on the couch the next morning with a skull threatening to split with the slightest movement and last night's behaviour playing havoc with my conscience. The guilt was reinforced by Nicky coming down the stairs, eyeing me without a trace of pity, and calling me a shithead.

As quick as I had divulged our private affairs, I was painfully slow in attempting to find Louise and deliver an apology. Content to see out my raging hangover before facing the music.

"I trusted you," Louise said, glaring at me with eyes that could have cut through reinforced steel. "I thought you were different from the others. But you're not."

"I'm sorry." Prepared for the seven shades of shit set to be flung my way, aware, I deserved it.

"You blokes are all the same. While your mates are clapping you on the back, calling you the man, girls on my road are branding me a slut."

I raised my hung head a fraction.

"That sad-eyed puppy shit won't work with me. You need to grow up, Aaron. Be a man, not a little boy."

For weeks, I sat around moored in my morose mood. I missed Louise. I was that kid with the toy they were tired of playing with. But take it away from them, and they want it back. Louise was right. I needed to act mature. So, I did. I acted like many adults. I worked, and afterwards, I enjoyed a drink. Or two. Or more. It got hard to recall once you'd rode roughshod over the line between tipsy and drunk.

Nicky forgave me. She joked she hated seeing her little sweetheart all mopey and depressed. She said I reminded her of that 'Danish fella in that Shakespeare play we did for our exams'.