of mini burgers (I refuse to call them sliders), each one small enough to fit in a child’s palm, as well as my pocket-sized notepad and a pen.
I can’t help thinking I lost my manhood somewhere along the line.
This is a new small bar I’m reviewing for the paper. I fled here immediately after the cinema debacle and as I sip my lady cocktail I feel alone, sad and sorry for myself. This is not the glamorous life a bar reviewer should be leading.
This is not the life a man ought to be leading.
Of course, I’m not going to write the article up that way. Instead, as usual, I’ll portray myself as a gallant bachelor about town who flirts with femme fatales in the hope Tori will read it and get jealous. And even if she doesn’t read the review she’s bound to read the article I write for Susan on the movie – although what on earth can I say in that?
A barmaid comes up to me, eyeing my notepad suspiciously, and I order a martini to bestow some sophistication on me – or at least calm my nerves.
Lord knows they need it.
Although I ought to be figuring out what I’ll put in this review, or my piece on the movie, all I can think about is Jezebel’s cry of “you should join us!”
It taunts me, making me wonder what they make of the situation. Is it just a game to them, was I just a laughable episode that’s already past?
Are they trying to screw with me?
I was an idiot for even going out with Tori in the first place. I knew from the beginning she wasn’t quite right, that she was out of my league, but I let myself get sucked in despite all the warning signs. I saw how she cheated on her boyfriend with me for over a month (karma’s a bitch, huh?), I saw how rude she was to shop assistants … and waiters … and me …
I finish my lady drink angrily, sullenly popping the cherry in my mouth.
My martini arrives and I gulp it before realising I should be savouring it in order to write about it. I scribble “smooth and goes down easily, unlike rejection” in my notepad.
I think of that clichéd line: love blinds you.
And then, inevitably, it blindsides you.
I spin my bar coaster contemplatively. You know, love isn’t blind at all. On the contrary: it’s driven by sight, the most shallow of our senses. I went out with a girl for her looks and allowed myself to believe there was more to her. What did I think would happen? We primarily choose someone based on whether they’re physically acceptable, and only then start finding reasons to justify it. Love ought to be blind, but it isn’t.
It’s a sucker’s game.
The trick is to not fall for it in the first place. Instead you have to get in and get out, limit the damage on both sides. One minute is all you need – perhaps two if you’re into foreplay.
We’re trying to find meaning in a world filled with chaos and chemically-driven decisions: it doesn’t make sense.
Instead, we should be lowering our expectations of each other – and of ourselves.
We are not wayward spiritual beings in need of correction. We are animals, little more, with delusions of grandeur and purpose.
It’s time we started acting like it.
7
I awake with a yelp and a possibly bleeding cheek to find Jackson’s furry face peering intently at mine. Grabbing my attention, he leaps off the bed and pads expectantly to his food bowl.
Son of a bitch.
Every couple have their routine. Some discuss their day over dinner, others warm their feet against their partner’s legs in bed.
Jackson claws me in the dead of night.
No matter how much food I put in his bowl before bed, it’s always empty just an hour later and tonight, as usual, he hauls me out at some ungodly hour in the am.
I get up to service him, my dream of Tori lingering in my mind. I dreamt we had a fight, she was yelling, and though I don’t remember what the fight was over I recall being bothered she didn’t care I was offended. Like Jackson, she was just out for blood.
I shake some food into the bowl before gingerly touching my face. Hopefully it won’t leave a mark.
The thing is, this dream was realistic, it showed exactly how Tori would act in real life. Our fights were always competitions rather than misunderstandings, she never cared if I felt bad about something.
Jesus, I sound like a pussy.
I slide back into bed to the sound of Jackson’s happy crunching. I’m groggy but not ready just yet to expunge the last dream and replace it with another. It may have been horrible but it also struck a nerve.
What also bugs me about the dream is how beautiful Tori was in it, even while throwing a tantrum – and that one quality haunts you.
I then think about how her childishness was cute at times, it wasn’t all bad: such as how she would only read children’s books, and her eyes would light up when reading the ones that featured the cheeky monkey that …
Ok, maybe I do need to date more literate women.
I shift around in bed. Still, despite all the bad times – all the many, many bad times – I still find myself missing her. I can’t explain why, not really, but …
I close my eyes.
A lot of times people get back together after long breaks … maybe there’s a chance she’ll change her mind and come back to me. She did want me to stay at the after party, and maybe seeing me there will awaken something inside her, and so if she calls … would I take her back?
She’d have to be genuinely sorry, of course, and we’d have to work things out, but maybe …
I start thinking of possibilities as I wait for sleep to wash over me.
◆
Jackson’s curled up on the pillow beside me when I wake up, this time at a more respectable hour. He opens his eyes, stretches out a paw, and makes an odd sound like a drunk being stirred from slumber.
I know how he feels.
It’s almost midday and after stretching and yawning I clamber out of bed. My thoughts from last night reassemble and form, slowly but surely, and I shake my head as if that will delete them – I must have been drunk and tired to have even entertained the notion of being with Tori again. What was I thinking?
Jackson jumps off the bed and pads to his food bowl.
I turn on my computer and wait as the old machine whirs and whines before laboriously downloading email. They begin to pop up, press release after press release, and then …
Son of a bitch.
Son of a bitch!
There’s a message from Facebook saying Tori wants to be my Facebook friend – which I don’t understand, since I deliberately defriended her after the breakup.
I stare at the screen, scrutinising the message, but it still doesn’t make sense.
I get up and pace around the room.
I should just delete it.
I sit back down and peer tentatively at the email, as if it might bite.
I should immediately delete it but … if I click the link it’ll show me her profile, which is otherwise blocked to non-friends (as I found out two weeks ago when I tried to stalk/check it out). And if I do click it then I can always see the profile without anyone knowing and then not re-friend her …
Who on earth does the sensible thing in these situations?
I compulsively click, my heart jolting when I see her photo. Luckily it’s awful, she’s screwing up her face for the camera, and then I glance at her