I hate you being in love, said the Glibertine. Thank god I am here to persuade you to give it up. There's no dignity in love for you.
Flushing, I started to defend myself but the Glibertine continued, leaving me with lips parted, as if waiting to receive a withdrawn kiss.
You shuffle around, head down, squeezing out whimpers. Your shoulders are slack, eyes dull. And you’re unreliable about drinking. One minute you’re complaining about depression, the next backstroking across 4 martinis just off world pace. All I ask from a consumpanion is consistency. How did you get yourself into such a state?
While he paused to draw breathe, I took my chance.
Sure, there’s no dignity to be found in martinis 3 to 6. But there is dignity in love.
Balls. Not for you.
That’s when I made my mistake. Irked by his negativity, I turned.
What would you know about love? You lacerate your liver night after night, sitting here with your ridiculous attire and foppish hair, philsophising through the bottom of your glass, shouting and spitting and rolling your eyes at all who pass. The only love you know is self. Don’t lecture me on love.
He sat quite still, his eyes fixed on mine. He said nothing. This was always worrying. Then he stood, turned, and went to the bar.
Nothing was said as he unloaded the tray, lining up 4 glasses in front of each of us. Beer on the left, triples of Irish in the middle and a shot glass, contents clear, on the right.
You may commence, said the Glibertine.
I lifted the shot glass and drained it, trying to suppress the twitch in my right eye.
I hate grappa.
I know.
He sat back in his chair, rested the corner of an Irish on his dressing gown cord, and ran yellow fingers through his abundant, filthy hair.
I do not presume to lecture on love, but on dignity. However, your insolence means you will receive guidance in both. When I'm done, you will understand 2 matters. First, you'll know how to love with dignity. Second, you'll appreciate there's no man better qualified to speak on the subject than I.
Tempted though I was to point out the incongruity of receiving a dignity lecture from a man in dressing gown and slippers in a pub at 4.00pm on a Wednesday, I remained silent.
Love is a feeling you cannot control. Dignity concerns how you conduct yourself while under love's influence. You're in love but you plague the object of your affection with every insecurity your brain chemistry produces. You're in love but adopt a mournful countenance. You see your love and your tongue thickens like a roed salmon but still you prattle at her like a convent girl fresh from detention. When you close your eyes you see hers but you TELL me about it.
For you, there is no dignity in love. QED.
And don’t for a moment think that's because your love is unrequited. It’s true the lovelorn are especially pathetic – who wouldn’t want to slowly crush Werther’s wind pipe beneath their heel – but you're pitiful at every stage .
With you, there's cow eyed sighing and, if I may be frank, creepy longing at the start. Then, if your nauseating patter manages to dupe some poor sap into returning affection, you're insufferably happy. And when your malformed personality kills the very love you’ve so assiduously cultivated, you loathe yourself... until the shabby carousel again rumbles into life.
Take it from me – cut out the start and the middle - just loathe yourself the whole time.
By now, my second glass was empty. I took some beer to wash away the bitterness.
As he looked at me, he seemed to soften. Not so.
If you must love, and it seems you must, at least follow these rules:
- Never tell ME about the nape of her neck or the curve of her ankle.
- Don’t aim too high. You are a plain man. Stick to your kind.
- Don’t trouble her with your saccharine sentiment and snivelling insecurities.
- Walk as if your spine has not been crushed.
- Consistently buy me drinks.
- Avoid disappointment by extinguishing hope.
On and on he went. Glass levels rose and fell. His dressing gown opened and, mercifully, closed. But I heard no more.
I was far away, in a different land, sipping Lacryma Christi beside a glittering sea. With my baby.
