Romance Isn’t Dead

Public displays of affection make me feel uncomfortable. In fact, they make most people feel uncomfortable. There’s no need for anyone to stick tongues in various ears or hands down various jean pockets in public if there’s a perfectly lovely room they can go to which won’t feature me giving them disapproving looks.

I’m not saying that a little fondling isn’t ok, but once it makes observers feel they shouldn’t be watching, that’s the cut off point! It’s easy to do, just think “would I like my Dad to see me doing this?” if the answer is no then I don’t want to see you do it either, and neither do the other innocent bystanders.

I have been able to avoid most of this seedy behaviour with my ‘head-down-no-eye-contact’ walking style, but recently I have been exposed to romantic behaviour that I can’t block out no matter how much I want to.

A couple have moved into an apartment with a balcony that I can see from my apartment. Normally this wouldn’t bother me in the slightest, actually I encourage everyone to move in to whatever apartment they wish to. However, since day one in their new accommodation this couple have designated their balcony as their ‘touching each other area’.

Every evening they sit outside eating their dinner on their laps and then, when the dishes are discarded under their chairs, they stretch their legs out on top of one another. They alternate foot rubs which turn into leg rubs which turn into general rubbing which turns my stomach.

“Don’t watch you pervert!” I hear you shout at me, “just avert your eyes to their romantic rubbing.” That would be a lovely idea, if their balcony wasn’t in my exact eye line at all times!

I’m watching TV, I can see them. I am cooking, I can see them. I am sitting at my desk pretending to write but really buying stupid things on ASOS, I can see them. Now you try to have a couple rubbing each other in your line of vision for a few hours and you’ll see for yourself how hard it is to not see it.

Of course it’s nice to see people in love. I appreciate they are happy, and that’s great for them. But I think they should appreciate that they are making me unhappy, and a little queasy.

I was seething about my impossible situation the other evening as I flossed, because sometimes I’m really good at being an adult, when suddenly the string snapped. The floss was caught in my teeth and would not budge, no matter how hard I tried to pull it out.

I waddled out to the kitchen with my tail between my legs and floss between my teeth, literally, and asked my boyfriend if he could be so kind as to cut the floss out of my teeth. This involved me throwing my head back and opening my mouth dentist-chair style as he manoeuvred the kitchen scissors into my mouth.

To me this was a pretty romantic situation. I have someone who will cut me out of my prison of floss without judgement or despair. Someone who will still fancy me even after seeing me at my lowest point, dental-wise. And I need not floss in fear because I live with this nice person who will rescue me if needs be.

I looked out the kitchen window once I had been freed and to my delight I saw the couple sitting on their balcony with their dinner, a front row seat in my own public display of affection. I hoped it might dull their appetite, for one night at least.

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