Life amid the wreckage.

I didn't communicate with Mr Singular the next day, nor him with me. The day after I had to be up at 6.30am for an early meeting, a time when he's usually at work. I texted him, So this is what 6.30am looks like. I do not approve.

No response.

Later that morning I found a rubber band on a colleagues desk that looked hilariously like an erect penis. I snapped a photo with my phone, texted it to KCG, who finds these things amusing, and then to Mr Singular. KCG responded. Mr Singular didn't.

Friday passed without communication from either of us. On Saturday evening I went to the local Pride Parade. I took a photo and texted it to him, with Guess where I am!

No response.

When I don't respond to his texts for 48 hours, it's unacceptable game-playing and a deal-breaker. When he ignores me for almost a week, it's... well, who knows? But clearly I've been dumped. I stood there at the side of the Pride Parade, in the middle of a crowd of happy, laughing gay men. The one's who didn't have committed partners would have uncommitted partners within a few hours. And then there was me, unceremoniously brushed off by the only man he'd ever had serious feelings for. Despite the go-go boys in gold hotpants and brightly coloured drag queens swirling around me, I felt as if I was at the bottom of a dark hole. It was only though force of will that I didn't sink to the pavement and bawl my eyes out.

So instead of going to an afterparty I went home, and sobbed into my pillow.