The dijonnaise question

20 May
A man dressed as ketchup and a woman dressed as mustard holding hands.

They must be in love.

There’s a point in every relationship that people later recognise as the beginning of the end. Sometimes it’s when you see that their friends are a bit douchey or that, try as you may, you will never, ever care about what they do for a living.

One of my relationships gave its last spattering breath when it heard me say “do you like dijonnaise? I mean, I know you like mayonnaise and mustard. But do you appreciate them in combination?” It was two fifths question, three fifths contraception.

The problem is, in most relationships, you know, the ones that end rapidly, there is a finite number of things you want to know about each other. At the start you have a surplus of interesting things to tell one another. Then there’s a limited supply of things worth knowing, until eventually  you enter a deficit and either start talking absolute bollocks or stop talking altogether. My innocent condiment inquiry was the last stop before total silence.

The more desperate you are to hold on, the more pointless your discourse becomes. Sensible people should recognise the deficit, accept it and move on. I am not one of those people. The result is usually months of two people slowly moving towards hatred, talking complete shit to each other out of sheer determination. If it goes on long enough your self loathing and resentment become strong enough to be worthy of mention and you just start shouting. This is to be avoided.

I’m a few months in to a relationship. Of sorts. A long distance one with someone I barely know. But the Internet is a wonderful thing and over the past twelve months we’ve been able to gleam morsels of information from each other. For instance, he speaks a reasonable amount of Spanish and broke his finger when he was six years old by accidentally jamming it in a door. Emersed in infatuation, I hunger for more details. I want to absorb his memories, thoughts and feelings by osmosis. But I’m also hesitant. If the dijonnaise question is ever to be asked I want to delay it as long as possible. I want to delay it until we’re senile and can just start over from the beginning.

I think that’s when I’ll know I’ve found true love. When the dijonnaise question never comes. When every question is met with, if not fascination, then at least a warm smile, a pat on the head and an inquiry about my preference for vegemite over peanut butter.

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