Ever eavesdrop on a conversation that makes you so angry, you have to do something about it?
Here’s my advice: keep out of it. Look at what happened to me…
It starts in a coffee shop, one evening after work. Ten hours on my feet, with just a 20 minute break for lunch and nonstop earache from Victoria all afternoon, I’m ready to drop. But I don’t just want to go back to my lonely flat and slump comatose in front of another CSI repeat. I need a little human interaction, even if it’s only the brunette in Caffé Nero who always has time for a chat and stamps my loyalty card twice, with a wink. I actually thought I was in there, but of course that’s the night I arrive to find her stepping out with some Neanderthal in a Fred Perry top. As is often the case, I left it too long.
Now I’m way past wanting to be sociable, I just want my coffee. So I order my usual, Americano, black, and sequester myself in a booth as far from the counter as possible. See, people are generally lazy. They don’t want to have to walk to the other end of the shop to sit down after all those endless minutes (say, two) standing in line. And it’s pretty quiet in here tonight so the changes of anyone schlepping all the way over to disturb my sulk are slim. That’s the theory anyway. But it’s been one of those days, so my coffee’s hardly cooled to drinkable before these two huge emo arseholes have slung themselves into the booth next to mine, all Siouxsie Sioux make-up and black leather trenchcoats. I hate them on sight, and then they open their mouths.
“Broke up with Yolanda last night,” says the one on the left. He’s wearing a 30 Seconds To Mars T-shirt and drinking what I’m guessing is a cinnamon latte. Too much eye make-up and bandages all up his left forearm. “What a scene.”
“Aw, dude, I’m sorry,” says the other. He’s only got one eye because of his ridiculous fringe and his coffee’s iced. Never trust anyone who likes their coffee cold. That’s one of the fundamental laws of thermodynamics. “Yolanda was smoking hot.”
“Bitch went nuts,” says Bandage Boy, and my loathing plumbs new depths. Those bandages are obviously for show. I’d love to think of him carefully scoring that arm with a razor blade, but there’s only one kind of self-abuse this idiot specialises in. “How was I supposed to know it was her birthday?”
“Sheeeeit,” says One-Eye, sounding nothing like that guy from The Wire. He laughs and asks how long it’s been since they first got it together.
“I dunno, man,” Bandages replies, “feels like, four, five, six… thousand years or something." If his face was an email, it'd read LOL right now. "Who keeps track of that kind of shit? It was good while it lasted, but a man gets bored – you know?”
“Oh, I know, brother, I know…”
It’s the kind of situation makes me desperate to commit random violence. How such an utter dick can end up with a "smoking hot" girlfriend who he takes for granted, treats like utter shit, then crows to his mate about dumping her. And meanwhile, here’s me, 27 year old, a steady job, prospects, and I don’t even have the confidence to ask out the girl in the coffee shop before she hooks up with some fashionista simian.
I’m still fuming five minutes later as the men in black drain their cups, lick the foam from their lips, and bounce on out of there. I can’t even rejoice at their departure, they’ve made me feel so bad. And that’s when I notice the iPhone Bandages has left behind in the booth. Must have fallen out of his trenchcoat. Anyone else, I might have chased after him, but this oaf? I’ve half a mind to phone up some premium rate sex line in Bangkok and leave the call running till the battery goes flat.
And then the text noise goes off and I almost drop the phone... until I see her picture flash up on the screen. Yolanda. There’s no denying it: she is smoking hot. Not a phrase I would generally use without bunny ears, but this is a girl who knows how to wear eye shadow, juju beads, and fingerless indigo gloves. Her hair is an explosion, but it’s the kind of explosion you’d gladly throw yourself into, and she’s smiling in her photo – the kind of smile that makes me hurt inside when I think of her wasting it on a cock-end like Bandages. I click the envelope and read the message.
Guy – we need 2 talk. Cant leave it like we did. Meet me. Tonite. U know what I need. And I need it bad.
And that's when I lose it completely. It makes me so angry, I want to smash things. Bandages’ iPhone, my grande coffee mug (it’s empty now, I wouldn’t smash it if there was still coffee to be drunk), this stupid leatherette booth, the whole blasted shop. Nobody’s ever sent me a text like that. Even the girls who stuck around for a while, none of them have ever told me they needed it. Bad. But this heartless buffoon… this faux-emotional poseur… this Guy… from him, she needs it. She needs it bad.
My thumb hurries off a reply. It’s automatic.
I’m in Caffe Nero, by the station. Waiting. See you soon.
I detest shorthand. My texts are always written in complete, punctuated English. But as my thumb hovers over send, I realise Guy wouldn’t be quite so conscientious. I rethink, then rethumb.
Babe - Im in Cafe Nero by station. Waiting 4 u. C u soon.
Yes. Much more illiterate. I hit send, slip the phone in my pocket, and head back to the bar to order a second drink. This time I’ll sit nearer the door.
To be continued...?
This week's #fridayflash wasn't meant to come with a "To be continued..."
I knew exactly where it was going and could probably have found time to write the second half... but then I hit a natural stopping place. Rather than rush the ending, I thought it might be fun to allow it a little more space to develop.
I dunno... what do you think? Let me know if you'd like to read part two next week. I'll take stony silence as my cue to come up with something different.
More importantly... where do you think this story is going? I'm intrigued to know whether the plot thus far suggests a predictable resolution. No, I'm not just scrounging around for ideas... in fact, if someone does suggest the ending I have in mind, it'll probably discourage me from taking this any further. Think of me as M. Knight Shyamalan, stopping at the end of the first act of The Sixth Sense, and asking his audience... so? If anyone says "Bruce Willis is a ghost", I promise I won't take this any further.
