It was a typically mild day when I arose from an unusually deep slumber. Not especially warm, or cold. Steps of a usual morning routine followed one after another, stretch, yawn, crack a few joints that shouldn’t audibly crack, check my phone, pet the dog, boil the kettle, and so on. Granola and milk. Coffee and two sugars. Little was I,the Rebecca so content and comfortable in my little birds-singing-blue-skies-humdrum bubble to know this was the day. THE day. The day that would change everything.
I guess you could say I’m a commitment-phobe. Isn’t everyone these days? I won’t simply listen to just one band, shop in just the one shop, often for lunch I might go to two shops just for a bit of variety – three if I’m feeling especially generous. As far as relationships go, it’s all or nothing and I find myself getting bored very easily as time goes by. But everything changed when I met him. The one. I’m young and naive – I know. My friends and family warned me and said that I was getting too involved at too quick a pace. But you know what they say – when you know, you just know. He was tall, dark, sleek and extremely polished. I was tall, frizzy, messy and extremely clumsy. We were so inexplicably different and somehow, we just clicked.
Everything about us was synchronised – all the other pitfalls that seemed to guarantee fiery spats between couples never happened between us. We both arrived punctually at each other’s events, we never forgot each other’s birthday, he never insulted what I wore or said or ate or listened to – and most importantly, he recognised my need for independence. He knew just the right times to switch off and wasn’t needy or rude when I wanted time to myself. At first I wasn’t sure about how different we were, I had plenty of gnawing doubts. But eventually, as we spent more time – good and bad – together, he grew on me and I began to rely on him. Everything was working almost too well, when of course I had to fuck it up. An annoying, untimely tendency that I just can’t seem to avoid. Irreparable damage completed at the hands of yours truly. Yet again.
It was another forgettable Friday morning, us sharing the bathroom and getting ready for the busy day ahead. I was mindlessly primping and preening in the mirror, taking up most of the space in the tiny bathroom yet again, but he never complained. Looking back now, I find it remarkable to recall how big a part of my life he was, yet he seemed to keep himself so small and compact to always make space for me. I was mid-eyebrow pluck when suddenly, I heard a ‘plop’. I yelped and jumped back in shock. He was drowning, and fast. I leapt into action and hauled him out, drying him off and calming him. With a beginner’s CPR certificate 2010 under my belt, I did my best to revive him repeatedly, but my efforts were in vain. My best friend, my soul mate, my lover and more was now gone forever. How was I ever to recover from the guilt and bereavement of letting my iPhone fall in the toilet?