He was French, he stuck his nose in a glass of wine before he drank it, and I mean he proper sniffed it. He wore designer shirts and cashmere jumpers, he spent more on one of them than I did, on my weekly shop. I loved him I did, from the bottom of my groin to the tip of my tongue. He was roughing it with me, I was a bit of local common muck on the end of his cock. I didn’t care, it was the best I was ever gonna get. I used to call him from the phone box on the corner, tell him I couldn’t live without him. He told me to get a grip. I had taught him what that meant when I came round his flat one day and he was crying cus he missed his mum. I was sympathetic at first but he just kept going on and on. He wanted her coq au vin not my bangers and mash that was when I told him to get a grip. Every time we went out, he bitched about my shoes, said they were unfeminine. The final straw was when he did it in front of his poncy mate. That night he woke up to a shoe smeared in dog shit, in his face, when he shouted, ‘merde what the fuck are you doing?’ I told him I was being unfeminine. The next day he did loads of French hand waving and shouting, it was quite sexy in a fucked up way. He was dumping me, the only word I understood was, fucking mental crazy bitch. I didn’t teach him that. I cried for a week, I missed his French ass, the taste of his cheese. Don’t get cheese like that round here.
By Nikki Kilburn.