Will Harris banishes his ex from his thoughts
“Well,” says Michael, “you definitely have a type.”
“What do you mean?” As he hands my phone back to me, I stare at the screen, puzzled. Reflected there is a photo of my most recent flirtation, a young man I met in the Midlands over the festive break and who I’ve carried on speaking to since my return. He is everything I’m looking for at this stage of my life: fun, attractive, and living over 200 miles away.
“Seriously? You’re telling me he doesn’t remind you of anyone?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I do know what he means. Ever since I took my new catch to Helen’s bookshop and her double-take almost sent her flying into a stack of Simone de Beauvoirs, it has not escaped my notice there are certain similarities between him and my ex. Only around the jawline. And the hairline. And some of the lines in between.
Over the last year I have worked hard to eradicate my ex from every area of my life. Phone number, Facebook photos, even this column. It is like I’m a top-ranking military officer in the United States Air Force and he is the existence of UFOs. “Roswell what?” I say. “Rendlesham who?” Then I take out my big ‘TOP SECRET’ stamp and bludgeon my ex to an inky death with it. Yet now, just as I’m starting to get somewhere, someone comes into my life who happens to look a bit like my ex, and suddenly everyone sees lights in the sky over Portland.
“You’re reading way too much into it,” I complain. “We all have certain attributes we’re drawn to. You know, like yours are a Brooks Brothers suit and a regular table at Le Cercle? Well, mine just happen to be slightly more… specific than the norm.”
“Twenty-something dancers who can get their legs behind their ears? Your lack of imagination is offensive.”
I decide not to remind Michael of his latest squeeze, a 21-year-old chorus boy with the exuberance of a red setter and a high kick to rival Jackie Chan. It would just start a fight.
“It’s like I am a top-ranking officer in the United States Air Force and my ex is the existence of UFOs”
As I walk home, I ponder the injustice of it all. My friends all seem to think I’m using this young doppelganger to re-visit the past, not understanding that, after the year I’ve had, that’s the last place I want to go. I know he’s not my ex, and – I realise with a jolt – nor would I want him to be. Take that, ET!
The fact is, we all have a type, and what any of us finds attractive says little about our higher thought processes. At some stage my friends will just have to accept I like perky, stage-school kids, with narrow hips and broad smiles. It’s hardly rocket science, is it?
