He was in a bit of a state, wretchedly hung-over and piecing together some uncomfortable flashbacks of a failed threesome the night prior.
Whoops. Did I just say that?
“You won’t say anything to anyone?” he asked.
“Who would I tell? Your mum?”
He gave a rich chuckle, then fell into a professional hush.
“Wait. Would you tell my mum?”
“Would you like me to?”
Let me start by saying that I am, arguably, the best ex of all time.
This is, in part, an attempt to atone for the fork-in-the-outlet personality I adopt while in relationship. True.
But it’s also because break-ups, viewed in the right light, are such a relief. Think about it. Whatever grievances we had when we were together get to be magically withdrawn.
You drank too much and bedded lord-knows-what and I tried to strangle you with a dish towel?
Scratch that memory. Because now I am the greatest supporter of your low-life inclinations.
Don’t hold back.
Let’s see how far you can take…
That’s pretty far, no?
But, “Good for you,” I tell him, anyway.
“Do you think?” he asks, with hesitation. “I’m not even sure who she was and I have to see my work mate again on Monday. That might be weird.”
“You’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“I think I might have puked off to the side of the bed. I kind of remember that.”
“It happens to the best of us.” I tell him, winking at a large man in a Mini Cooper idling next to me at the traffic light.
No. No, it does not.
It happens to you, specifically. A lot. Only now it happens without me. And it happening without me is my favorite thing about you.