In the history of rebounds I don’t think there has ever been one as opportunistic and less thought through as this one. The list of essentials was low and the list of must-nots was nowhere to be seen.
I’ll start after it ended because the rest was a blur – after pre-drinking at a friend’s house we made it to town late and some reports suggest that I was only in the club for 50 minutes before taking my leave.
John got out of bed, put his clothes on and left to meet up with his friends before catching a train back to Durham, after all he had made the trip to Manchester to see them and not me. Perhaps I should have taken his swift exit to heart, but I didn’t. I wanted a distraction from the night and my distraction had lasted all the way through to 7am, when I then got to use the full length and width of my bed to catch up on lost sleep.
Once dawn had broken I spent the morning hanging out with my housemate and his fling. It seemed the night had been a success for the house. I see no shame in being a gooseberry; I didn’t feel awkward, even though my housemate and his latest lover probably wouldn’t have minded spending the day making out on the sofa while I killed time in my bedroom. We enjoyed film after film and the newly established couple did a great job at making it seem as though I wasn’t imposing.
It was early afternoon when I dragged myself back to my room to grab an extra layer and then that I noticed there was blood on my sheets, so noticeable in fact that my housemate pulled me up on it later that day. I sat back on the sofa to stew in poor quality TV and run through some of the prior night’s events in my head – I wasn’t in any pain, the sex wasn’t rough, no biting, no scratching, nothing to justify any tearing.
It wasn’t until late afternoon, when I straightened my sheets, that it all became clear. There were two shoe prints to the right of the bloody mess and, as I remembered decking it as I confidently marched home in my heels over cobbles with John in tow, it all made sense. I shouldn’t have been as confident as it resulted in the mother of all school-girl grazes and me on the floor. My bloody sheets told the story of when I first got him home, he sat on the edge of my bed and, without a second thought to my flesh wound, I straddled him, he responded by desperately trying to shuffle himself further onto the bed leaving his shoe prints in the process. Mystery solved.
The first few moments with John were captured so eloquently in the background of a photo a friend of mine took on the night. Initially I had to ask her to remove it from the world wide web, but enough time has passed for me to air my act of class for your benefit.