I don't need this shit from the past, so I have to deal with it quickly or get hurt.

The text from Steve is typical of the man: Manny has died. Knew u wd want 2know. Call me re:funeral if u want.

I could never fault the guy's directness. Brutal sometimes. I know where he picked up that trait.

I leave the pointless woman in the coffee shop and head home, only 15 minutes' walk away. On the way, I dial. Not Steve for some half-thought out reason, but Georgie.

'Georgie, it's Mike.'� A pause.
'Hi'�You heard about Manny?'�
'Yeah. Steve texted me. How are you doing?'�
'I don't really know at the moment, Mike. How about you?'� A sad but belligerent tone from Manny's old friend.
'It hasn't sunk in yet.'�
'The funeral's on Monday.'�
'Thanks.'�
'See you there?'�
I dodge the question for now: 'Georgie, what happened?'�
'Childbirth. She went into hospital on Wednesday, a bit early. The baby's OK. Little girl. David hasn't named her yet, I think.'�
'I didn't know she was pregnant. Would have sent a card,'�
'Well, things got a bit weird between you two, didn't they? Hope to see you Monday.'�
'Yeah, thanks. See ya.'�

I hang up and walk on. Cold bitch she could be sometimes, Georgie. The rest of the walk is automatic as I try and pull apart what to do next, without any success.

Home. I live in an apartment, just me and my walls full of books, an entertainment system I adore and a wardrobe full of outdoor gear. There's a big fridge too, well stocked because I like to eat well. I fancy myself as a renaissance man, so there's asparagus in there, next to the imported beer and the tupperware box with my camera film in it.

Life is good because I'm in control. Suddenly I wonder why I still have Georgie's number on my phone. She never approved of me as Manny's choice of man and we never liked each other.

This is getting more complicated, so I walk over to the fridge and pull out a beer, flip the top off and neck half of it. I like the cold, clear taste right now.

I put on a CD at random. It reminds me of Manny and I don't want that. Everything now reminds me of Manny, three years, three months and six days since she drove out of my life and into someone else's. I've spoken to her once since then; a few weeks later, when we had nothing to say to each other. Then not a word for more than three years. I've moved on. And now she's dead. Fuck.

I still face a moment of decision. Go to the funeral and pick up a sodden sack full of sharp, rusty memories, or stay in this cool, calm isolation. No, I can handle it.

But I feel like I'm being dragged backwards through three years of history towards Manny, and some memories are coiling unhappily around me for no logical reason.

I've slept with two women in this place since I moved in to get over Manny, but there's no physical trace of them in my life. No pictures or even any items I link with them - I got rid of them. I used to fall in love easily and hard, chasing the ideal of being with a soulmate.

So I got used as a rebound guy or worse. Like a stupid dog it took me a while to connect what I was doing with the kickings I was getting. But in the same way, the lesson finally sank in and has stayed. I like it that way. Less love, less hassle.

The process started at a conference when I met Petra, a researcher from our Derby office, all attitude and spiky hair. We liked each other, chatted, laughed and drank too much, then fucked like two people bored with the other options. I hated myself because I wanted to love.

Jen, a friend of a friend. Curly red hair and an attitude you could bend horseshoes around. Loved her arse and her laugh and her swift brain. Fell for her like an idiot. It lasted three weeks. Tried to be friends but I didn't have the heart for it and we faded from each other's lives.

Sasha, an internet date. We both fell for each other, found love and warmth and tenderness together. It astounded and delighted us both. Met her folks, she met my friends. Life was good. Two months of this and one day she popped to the shops for some groceries, bumped into her ex, came home and dumped me to go back to him.

Three months on and I still thought about her every day. Then every other day. Then once a week maybe. Then she just became this person I once knew. But even now I still want to be in love with her sometimes. In love with the dream.

That was when I finally stopped falling in love and life got easier. Less pain, less hassle, and more time to go walking with friends, enjoying their unqualified affection. But now I'm trying to get my head around the idea of a dead ex-lover; the last of my great loves. And I think about calling Sash as a way back to those emotions I remember so happily.

Stupid. Later, maybe.

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