It's Not You, It's Them - Portia MacIntosh

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habits are cute and amusing. But it’s fine, because they find you utterly charming, too, like when you only shave you legs as much as you need to in accordance with the length of what you are wearing, or how you can’t ever walk along cobbled roads because cobbles and heels just don’t work together.

      When I met Mark it felt like a modern-day fairy tale, and things only got better from that moment on. Now that we’re a year into our relationship, I bet you’re wondering whether or not things are still as romantic as they were when we met…

      ‘I can’t believe you’re on Call of fucking Duty again,’ I say with a big sigh as I stare out of the window, shaking my head.

      Mark laughs.

      I glance over my shoulder and look at him sitting on the sofa, that cheeky smile still there but his eyes glued to the home cinema screen in front of him. He’s clutching a controller in his hands and he’s got his headset on his ear, his microphone hovering just in front of his mouth in case he needs to smack-talk any 14-year-olds playing in America. Trust me, if there’s one thing worse than watching your boyfriend play video games, it’s watching him play them in one-hundred-and-fifty inches with surround sound so immersive, it keeps occurring to me to call my mum and tell her I love her every time I hear an explosion. And if there’s one thing even worse than that, it’s when he watches football on it. But the absolute worst thing of all the things that the love of my life does is play FIFA, because that’s a video game and football combined – and beyond boring for me.

      ‘Is watching me play not piquing your interest in warfare?’ he asks cheekily.

      ‘The only thing that watching you play is doing is making me crave the sweet release of death via a headshot,’ I say wryly.

      Mark throws his head back as he laughs.

      ‘You’re too funny,’ he tells me. ‘This match is nearly over, then we can do whatever you want.’

      ‘Thank God, because it’s Sunday, and you know I hate Sundays.’

      ‘I know you do, but I still don’t understand why, you weirdo.’

      ‘They’re just so boring,’ I explain – for the millionth time. Mark just doesn’t understand my hatred of the day. ‘Everywhere closes early, everyone is miserable about the impending Monday morning, nothing really happens – I’ve never had a good Sunday.’

      I think I’m possibly the only person in the world who loves Mondays – but it’s exclusively because it means that Sunday is as far away as it can possibly be.

      ‘So, basically, because you can’t shop as much and you have to get up early tomorrow?’ he asks.

      ‘Nailed it,’ I reply.

      Our corner apartment boasts the most incredible view of London. The first time Mark invited me over, I nearly gave myself an RSI Instagramming from the large, floor-to-ceiling, living-room window that looks out over the river. By day you can take in the beautiful buildings, people-watching the buzz of activity on the riverbanks and checking out who and what is travelling along the Thames. By night, the view transforms into this picture-perfect skyline; silhouetted buildings like something from a cityscape photography book, littered with a sea of twinkling lights. Simply breathtaking, no matter what time of day you’re looking out, and all the more enjoyable if you have the time to sit and watch as the afternoon slips into evening, the sky changing so gradually, and yet before you know it, it’s dark, and you’ve been aimlessly gazing out of the window for two hours.

      ‘So, who are you spying on today?’ Mark asks, attempting conversation despite being in the final stages of an especially tough mission.

      ‘There’s a little old lady, sitting by the river,’ I tell him.

      ‘Nice place for a Sunday stroll,’ Mark replies.

      ‘She looks lonely,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Even from up here, I can tell. The only thing that could make Sundays worse would be spending them alone.’

      I don’t even realise Mark has moved from the sofa until I feel his hands creep around my waist from behind me.

      ‘You’re not going to end up alone,’ he assures me.

      ‘I’m already a video game widow,’ I tease him with a laugh, placing my hands on his, which are now resting lightly on my tummy.

      Mark rests his chin on my shoulder and gives me a tight squeeze, because he knows that I love it when he squeezes me. He’s strong, with big muscular arms, and when he locks them around me I feel so safe and adored.

      ‘You know that I love you, right?’ he asks.

      I turn around in his embrace to face him, placing my hands on his cheeks as I look him in the eye.

      ‘Of course I do,’ I assure him. ‘You know I’m only joking about the video-game-widow stuff, right?’

      ‘I do,’ he laughs.

      Yes, I find it boring watching him play video games, but I’d never tell him not to, because he enjoys it. I reserve the right to tease him about it, though; that’s what girlfriends are for.

      ‘It’s just... fuck it,’ Mark says, wiggling free of my grasp before kneeling down on the floor.

      ‘No, come back and talk to me, give me physical contact,’ I whine. ‘If you’re taking another video game out of that box, so help me God…’

      ‘Roxie Pratt,’ he interrupts me as he rummages around in the pocket of his shorts. ‘You are the smartest, funniest, most beautiful woman I have ever met. I know it’s only been a year, but we’ve spent pretty much every second of that time together and it hasn’t just made me realise that you are impossible to grow bored of, but also that I can’t bear the thought of spending a single second without you.’

      I stare at him, blankly. Unable to do anything but blink.

      ‘More?’ he asks with a laugh. ‘OK. Before we met, sure, I was happy, but I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know what I was missing. And this place just didn’t feel like a home until you moved in – and not just because you keep the fridge fully stocked,’ he jokes.

      ‘Tell me about it,’ I reply. ‘I remember when I used to stay over here, and I was having to have banana-flavoured milk on my Frosties because that was all you bought – and I was having to eat Frosties for three meals a day because all you had in your cupboards was cereal.’

      ‘Well, that’s because we stopped going out; we just stayed in and had sex all the time.’

      ‘Unlike now?’ I ask as a cheeky smile creeps across my face.

      ‘Well, now we just do both – sometimes at the same time,’ he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

      The first time I slept with Mark, it was so good, I thought I’d died and gone to sex heaven. Seriously. We went out a lot when we first started dating, but as soon as we realised how explosive things were in the bedroom for us (not that we’ve ever thought it necessary to limit ourselves to that one room), that was it; we would just stay in and have sex all the time, breaking only to go to work (give or take a few ‘sick days’) and eat Frosties (and one time, we didn’t even bother taking a break from having sex to eat cereal – we’re still finding Frosties in our bedroom to this day).

      ‘Roxie,’ he continues, as his hand finally emerges from his pocket with a small black box in it. ‘Will you marry me?’

      Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wondered about how my future husband would pop the question to me. I’ve thought about the location, the words he would use, what the ring would be like. What I never gave much consideration to was how I would react – but what’s important is for me to be cool, calm and ladylike, right?

      ‘Fuck off,’ I blurt out, my London accent having never sounded stronger.

      Mark laughs.

      ‘I’m

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