It won’t be news to many of you that things haven’t quite been right between Tom and I for some time. Oh, we put a brave enough face on it, for the sake of our families and the kids, but holding it all together, during tough times that tested us for poorer, in sickness proved sometimes too much. Eventually we forsook each other too, and even though I have borne the brunt of criticism on this, it was both of our faults.

But as I lay awake last night, jolted from sleep by a vodka based thirst,  pondering what has become of so many of our friends, many of whom seemed to drift off at the first sniff of trouble,  it occurred to me that it doesn’t really matter what they think of us anyway. Because we’ve still got each other, and we’re the only ones who really understand.

There will never be anyone quite like Tom. No one else I can pick my face in front of, or leave teeth marks in after a fight. No one else who calmly picks up my smashed phone, the third in as many months and plugs in an old one  without saying a word; who gets up in the night to deal with a child, or copes with my nightmares. He lets me get away with murder, knowing I’m in a prison of my own. He’s not only my friend, in many ways, he’s my only friend. The only person who has not let me down about the big stuff, even though the small stuff sometimes goes awry.

He lets me be lazy, too much for my own good sometimes; can be goofy and irritating. I can be over critical or just plain rude. He can be overeager, a feeder, a pleaser. His sexual preferences can be comic and his nose gets in the way when he kisses me. I wish he were more discerning, but then he might not have gone for me. But at least he’s tidy and I’m clean. Together our house is in order.

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