Tea for One (part three)

 I had been watching reruns of the Simpsons, eating chocolate and scratching myself indulgently for the best part of half an hour, and I was becoming increasingly aware of the fact I was letting time dwindle away when that marvellous creature would soon have been finished fixing my water, and she would shortly be leaving to go back home where she would probably spend most of her time lying seductively on a bed of rose petals while ludicrously muscular men would feed her chocolate coated strawberries and beg for her affection as she showers them with insults. At least I assume that's what beautiful women get up to in their spare time, I have never actually been in the presence of one in the comfort of their own home. Anyway, I needed to do something before she got away. Anything. I just couldn't let her pass from my life.

But why would she stay around? As far as I could see there was no reason why she would possibly wish to spend any more time with me. She was struggling pretty severely with the time we were currently spending together, and I wasn't even in the same room as her. The smell of my house alone seem to trouble her enough, as I heard some pretty harsh imagery about “pig sties” and “burning gypsy-brothels” coming from the kitchen.

But it was best not to dwell on these thoughts. I should not discourage myself. I was going to ask her out on a date, because this is what normal people do when they like other normal people.

But first, I needed to sweeten her up. I walked through to the kitchen to admire her work.

“You're doing a great job,” I said encouragingly, smiling at her.

“Thanks,” she said, “I'm almost done.” My time was running out. I had a short time gap while I could still keep her in my life before she forever left to fix other people's pipes and receive mild harassment from slightly more competent men. I struggled to get my words out.

“Beth...” I started.

“Yes?”

“I... ah....” Oh god, I couldn't say anything. My words were stuck in my throat. I was just making incomprehensible noises with a pained expression on my face. I couldn't form a sentence. This was incredibly embarrassing.

“Are you all right?” She asked.

“Yes, I'm fine thanks. Say, lovely weather. What's the time? Do you own a sundial? I wonder which way North is. I'll be right back I think I left the T.V. on.” I rushed out of the room with a fast walk and my arms flailing awkwardly by my sides.

Go on, Marcus, I said to myself, you need to impress this woman. But how?

Poetry. I've seen enough films in my time to know that women love receiving poetry. Coming to think of it I can't actually recall a film in which love poetry has successfully won a woman over. Did it happen in Ten Things I Hate About You? There was definitely some poetry and some crying in there somewhere. No wait, I think it was when Heath Ledger bought that girl the guitar that she was won over. Maybe I should get Beth a guitar...

No, it would have to be poetry. I couldn't afford a guitar, and poetry is free. And aren't the best gifts free? In this case, definitely.

But there wasn't much time. I had never actually written a love poem to a woman before. And I had never written one to Beth, I had only known her for an hour. I should have been writing poetry instead of watching repeats of The Simpsons. Now she will leave any minute and I have no poem to offer her.

A Haiku has got to be my best shot. After all the ladies do love a good Haiku, we've been through this.

I could hear her packing her tools away, I had to be quick. I looked around for some tools to craft my poem with. All I could find was an old bus ticket and a red pen that I managed to get working after some excessive scribbling and a repeated licking of the nib. I racked my brain for the words to woo her with.

Then they came to me. Divine inspiration flashed within my soul. I knew the perfect words, I could feel them. It was like I had always known them, and had been waiting for this day at this precise moment to channel the words onto the back of an old bus ticket with all the meaning of my aching heart. This was destiny. In my most elaborate handwriting, into the ticket I carved

Your yellow hair is

very nice; you've great teeth too.

Will you g'out with me?

I was incredibly pleased with this. I had never seen anyone combine 'go' and 'out' before to create the fantastic monosyllabic phenomena that is the word 'g'out.' Maybe after today someone will put it in the dictionary. Shakespeare invented boring words like frugal and eyeball, but me, I had channelled my creative being into the most useful word combination in the English non-language: g'out.

I had to give my masterpiece to Beth straight away.

“Beth!” I started exuberantly, “I have for you a poem; one that I crafted with my own two hands, a red Biro and a used bus ticket.”

“Oh you shouldn't have,” she murmured, taking the poem. She was obviously intimidated by the presence of such an esteemed literary gentleman. If I get famous because of the invention of the word g'out, I thought, then maybe I won't even need Beth any more. I could probably be having sex with supermodels in baths made out of cocaine using lubricants that are fifty percent liquid ecstasy. All those drugs would probably take their toll on my body though, and besides, cocaine baths probably don't have great water-bearing properties. I'll keep trying with Beth for now. The supermodels and cocaine can be my plan B.

“Marcus...” she started, “I don't think I can go out with you, I'm sorry.”

“Don't you mean you can't g'out with me?”

“Yeah, I suppose I do mean that. And about that word...” she said tentatively. “It's not a real word. It's not a thing in any way. You just can't say that.”

“But Shakespeare invented loads of words. Do you think he let anyone stop him when he started to use the word frugal? Probably not. Now, thanks to him we have a word for someone who is economically efficient and a prudent saver of money. What did people do before that word came along? We were lost without the word frugal. It was madness.”

“I don't think its the same sort of thing. I mean, frugal is definitely a useful word, but g'out? You've essentially merged two words together that don't need to be merged, and in doing so you arouse connotations of a disease culminating in attacks of inflammatory arthritis. It is unnecessary and distasteful. The only use that it could possibly have ever, is to fit the syllable count of a Haiku that an untalented man had to hurriedly write in a two minute period on the back of a bus ticket. And while we're on the subject of your poem, I don't know why you think women love haiku; they definitely don't. I am going to go out on a limb here and say that out of all the poetic forms available to man, the haiku is probably one of my least favourites. Honestly, it's down there with the Limerick and the Medieval religious Ballad.

“I'm sorry, I really am. I'm sure you're not a bad man. Well actually... At least you are not a consciously malevolent man. I'm sure that if I spent some more time with you, I might be able to find one redeeming quality. I don't know what that could possibly be, but my unshakeable faith in the human race leads me to believe there must be something about you that a woman could love, but that woman is not going to be me. I just can't spend any more time with you. I'm sorry.”

And she picked up her toolbox, walked through the front door and left.

When I had stopped staring longingly after her I didn't know what to do with myself. I walked over to the tap and twisted; it was working. I twisted the other tap; it was also working. I glanced around the kitchen and saw Beth's tea, she hadn't drunk it but there was a hole in the whipped cream where she had taken her first and only sip. Sighing, I took the mug into the lounge and took my place on the sofa.

I turned on the T.V. and had a taste of the tea; it wasn't that bad, was it?