One perfect day: Dan-The-Man-With-A-Plan
I am trying to remember a perfect day, a carefree day. Not a hypothetical day as Keanu described, but a day that was. Two come to mind. A day with Dan and a day with Harry.
I was 18 months into a relationship with Dan, the longest relationship I had ever been in. They tended to implode around the 6-week mark but we had managed a steady harmony. Dan’s nickname was Dan-The-Man-With-A-Plan. He had a five-year plan, not a vision but a map that was to be unwaveringly followed. Within five years, he would be married, with two kids, own a house in the suburbs, be well-paid, high up the ladder in a corporation, with a foot in politics. He knew what he wanted and what he wanted – inexplicably – was me. The first time we went shopping it was 10pm. He picked out a toothbrush, said ‘this one okay?’ and put it in his trolley.
Danno – Australians have to put an O or Y on the end of every name – was well-liked, well-loved, politically astute and articulate, from a good tight-knit family. The sort of man you would bring home to your left-wing immigrant parents. His knee constantly jiggled, or he would bounce on the spot; if he held a pen it would blur like a jacked-up metronome. Saturdays would be spent shouting at the television (football, cricket, soccer, football) or – quelle horreur – going to a game. He would pace for no particular reason. With that ceaseless motion, he was bound to get to his destination.
Danno owned a cool place in a cool neighbourhood – the first part of the plan. Cool concrete floors, cool grey walls, cool friends and cool parties. I wasn’t sure how I had ended up in the cool crowd. He was a close friend of my sister so I suppose I was cool by association.
Usually, on a Sunday I was roused too-early by the sound of him whistling, the vivifying aroma of coffee on the stovetop. He would bring my coffee to me along with the plan for the day that I would happily fall in with. Dan would drag me out of the inertia caused by the week and we would be out before 9am. We would go to some cool café and he would read the paper whilst I interrupted him, demanding he read my interesting snippets like a bored child, jealous of the A5 pages that divided his attention.
That perfect day the sun streamed through the trees, undressed by winter, into the bedroom. It was the light dappling in my eyes that stirred me. Dan was sitting quietly reading a book. It was almost 10am.
We had lazy morning sex, half-way between sleep and waking. Relationship sex, familiar and welcome like my morning coffee, served just the way I liked it.
Dan’s flatmate was away so we had the place to ourselves, free to wander to and from the bathroom or kitchen naked. There was no sport on television worth watching. There was food in the fridge, the chores were done and Dan had already mopped up what he referred to as my Phoenix-puddles, piles of my clothes and bags and books that I dumped on the floor when I got home from work.
It was the morning after another night out with his cool friends, playing pool. I couldn’t play pool but I could lean over a pool table pretending. Dan’s friends were all single, good looking and – as ever – on the hunt. They huddled together watching me take my shot in my black velvet pants. The ball was, as always, evasive but the boys sweetly let me have another few shots.
As always, I ran out of steam around 1030pm and limped along for another hour until I left them to it and tucked myself up in bed by midnight. Dan stumbled in smelling of rum and coke. If he’d been smoking he knew not to nudge me – I was just as likely not to touch him for days, until the stink of tar had leached out of his skin.
After our lazy-sex, we talked blurrily.
“What time did you get home?”
“Around 2am.”
“That’s early.”
“Yes, well, your fault really. The whole bending over stroking a cue and wearing black velvet pants combination had an effect on the boys. They told me I was an idiot and sent me home.”
It had never occurred to me that I should be bothered about going home alone most nights. He wanted to stay out and I didn’t. I would much rather sleep than be the only sober person listening to drug-stoked late-night epiphanies, that were neither startling nor interesting.
I waited for Dan to announce the plan for the day.
“What are we doing?”
“I thought we might just do nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Read, have sex, eat, read, watch a movie, have sex.”
“So, no….plan?”
“The plan is to have no plan.”
Big fat dollops of rain, liquid sunshine, plopped against the bedroom windows, drummed steadily against the steel roof making conversation unnecessary.
The day was spent reading, listening to rain, napping in the crook of his neck, ensconced in thick white sheets and heavy blankets. When I needed a break from reading we’d have sex. Nothing surprising or mind-blowing but some effort was involved. We had been together long enough for him to know the shortest route to ‘aaah!’ and I went back to reading without forgetting where I was.
When we were hungry we’d graze on cheese and dips, served with a velvety red in bulbous crystal glasses.
We were in that sweet-spot of the relationship, before not being married was something that was not going according to plan, when silence was comfortable and not a concern.
We didn’t leave the apartment or the bed, save for sustenance. We had sex seven times, a record for both of us. Something he could tell the boys. Perhaps that had been his plan all along.
You don’t have to own a castle to be a benefactor or patron of a writer and it sounds fancy doesn’t it? You can be a patron for the cost of a coffee. You can say stuff at parties, like “Yes I support a new writer and her foster child. Can’t have them all starving in garrets writing by candlelight can we? How much does a garret go for these days?” Seriously, thank you for supporting me, my muse, and my son in our daily lives.
Wishing you love and all good things x
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