Tale A For Apple
Jane was adamant that she was going to avoid her ex-boyfriend today.
The fact that he was in bed wrapped around her, was going to make this difficult.
She was not one to give up on a good idea though and so this plan was going to take some…well…planning.
She had wasted ten quite average months of her life on this bearded mess who was currently out for the count and breathing heavily into her left ear. The effort of having bought her two drinks, once he realised it was going to be worth his while, and then splitting the taxi back, had clearly taken it out of him. And of course he must have been just knackered after carrying her up the three steps to the door before having to put her down because his back was sore and “you get the picture babes“.
Not to mention all of the physical exertion required in watching her make them toast at 3am. He’d taken off her top and bra and then decided it was probably best to get some food in ‘beforehand’. “I miss us eating together Babes. You love bread“. The man had been right. She did love bread. She loved bread very much. It’s a pity bread hadn’t arrived into the Harmington Arms at 10.45pm on ‘Gin Friday’, pinched her drunken arse and brought her home two hours later for seven minutes of activity which didn’t even burn off the calories from the toast.
Indeed it would have taken some pretty mouldy baguettes to give her the same shameful flashbacks she was currently enjoying. Lord knows she might have even ENJOYED goddamn bread and it certainly would have tasted better…
But then bread would never have thought of ending such a sparkling evening by reading out its hilarious facebook banter between itself and ‘Crichley’ questioning the sexual orientation of ‘Hamish’ from accounts.
But the bread metaphors had gone stale. Jane was caught in a 5ft 11 trap. She was in a naked cage. They were a pair of dessert spoons stuck together from the heat of a malfunctioning dishwasher. He had his left arm wrapped around her neck, pinning her head to the pillow. His left leg was doing something similar around her waist. She presumed that his right leg had wandered off towards the far wall and must have been involved with the duvet because she certainly had none of it. His right arm had arched itself over his own head like a lampshade and his hand was for some reason gripping her fringe and pulling it backwards from the front of her face. She must look like Jedward.
Well one of them.
Perhaps whichever one was naked and drunk at 6am and had the lowest self esteem.
The one on the right.
It had also been quite a clammy affair, so there was going to be some bare-skin-on-a-barstool-in-summer-peeling afoot, once she got moving. She wasn’t going to lie. This would be difficult. She was still quite drunk. Though she hoped that this would give her a flexibility that she would only realise later she didn’t actually have.
Time to go for it. Rigor mortis was beginning to set in. If she didn’t act soon she would be forced to stay with him like a wheelchair bound James Caan with Kathy Bates in ‘Misery’. But there was no recognisable background piano music here and it was time to make her move. If she didn’t act fast this pothole of existence would wake up and beg her to stay with him. And she bloody well would as well.
Especially if he gave her the ‘jigsaw’ speech again. “You might not like the picture babes, but you can’t deny that the pieces fit“. He knew her too well. Putty.
Right. She would begin with the feet. Currently her only soldiers not POWs. She latched them onto the end of the bed like hooks and used sheer drunken determination to slide her body down the bed. It had been a successful enough first attempt for a climb down human mountain. Her head was almost out of the clinch and her hair had slipped quite easily from his right hand grab.
But her feet could only pull so far and the bed end was now pressing sorely on her calves. She had slid down just far enough that the monster’s arm was now pressed like raw sausage meat over her eyes and left ear.
Still, she could breath. That would help. It had been quite an energetic twenty seconds there. She had come quite a way. But the physical escapade had reminded her of how much more ‘g’ than ‘t’ she had consumed in the last eight hours.
Time for a pitstop. She would use this little break to think about where her clothes might be. She knew that her shoes were definitely in her handbag. She had taken them off in the kebab shop. Her tights were in a sanitary bin in the pub toilet and her knickers were in some lucky taxi man’s drinks holder and her bra was definitely near the toaster that had inspired the tea break. But now where, oh where were the big staples?
The Primark shirt-dress, the ironically big cardigan, the pleather bomber jacket, the scarf that was ingeniously also a hood? At what point of the evening’s entertainment did they get folded up neatly and hidden in a tree by the invisible night squirrel? She was assured that the kitchen would probably account for a huge amount.
Time for round two. This next episode would heavily feature the character of ‘her right arm’.
It was already pointing upwards as if she had been doing an impression of superman flying. Using it to push off against the wall, and helped by some knee pumping, she forced the rest of her body downwards slowly.
She had slid herself so successfully down the man ladder with movement number two, that from her shoulders down, she was free as Nelson Mandela. But alas her neck was now trapped underneath his bloody thigh and she decided not to consider what might be sticking into the back of her head. Her noggin and neck were Northern Ireland; not technically belonging to his body but certainly not comfortably her own. But dear god, she was hardly going to find her iPhone without them.
She twisted her body anti clockwise slowly so that she was now on her back with his leg casually traversing her oesophagus like a pork pashmina.
The aerial view was impressive. Placing her two hands on either side of her shoulder, she wedged her fingers underneath his leg and bench pressed it up and over her head and quietly back onto the bed. She then continued to slide down the bed using her feet which were now planted firmly on the ground. Using a foot action indicative of a Flintstone driving his car, she dragged the remnants of herself from the bed and forward rolled into a squat.
Slowly rising to her feet, like a Russian Gymnast post pole vault, she turned around and surveyed the unlove of her life. He sort of looked quite cute, all pink and hairy like a gorilla with alopecia. And still sound asleep! Ha! She was a genius! A veritable James slutty Bond!
She could have worked for MI6 with her crafty slithering. Indeed she was too good for him, she was a queen of tact and discretion. An homage to the female sexual liberation movement.
Yes, you could have your cake and eat it too girls! She mentally high fived herself and looked around.
“Now that’s a bit of a pity” she thought. “We’ve come back to mine“.
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