A week in the life

A friend of mine died last Sunday. I was only told on Monday and just could not get, could not comprehend it. My brightest recollection of the times we had? Sharing a joint in front of our corporate offices with a number of colleagues passing by. Very funny and daring back then. Very numbing now. Very, very numbing.

Monday, it was her birthday — and she asked me to come see her. I emailed her back, a bit harshly. Yeah, it could had been a hair softer, yet what would had been different? Nothing would had changed.

Went home and drove my ex in instead — to have someone to look after me. It was a primal need; calming, calming, calming.

Come Tuesday, I did not feel much better. Could not stop thinking about it. He was only 35. Fucking 35. One day he's here, the next one, click, he's gone. Fucking gone.

Wednesday. Meeting with a CEE lead of a major corporation, long miles away from home. Driving there and back; exhausted but happier. Happier — only 'cos exhausted. My ex is still at my place, still looking after me. I'm grateful. This time around, I can appreciate it.

Thursday. Difficult talks. There's few people who won't be working for us next month and they don't know yet. Plus a party in a posh hotel for a bunch of wannabe VIP clients in the evening. They get wasted, it's free. I talk, I laugh, I take the bill. And drive some of them home. Classic.

On Friday, I found out that my director is amongst those who got smashed. He misses a couple of morning meetings, comes in late and leaves early, being moody and slightly less articulate then usually. I split few minutes later, too.

Having a quick nap and meeting friends in a bar soon after. Off to a party shortly. Morgan, Morgan, and more Captain Morgan. I'm not drinking, just having a toast. Somebody is celebrating something. They all knew him, every single one of them. We used to party together but nobody utters a word, it's like a strange taboo. And his funeral was held earlier today. Tough, tough life.

Sleeping well past midday, then going through the shit at home, trashing a lot away. The less you have, the more you have. Things are not to be loved.

Saturday afternoon. A call from a friend. Join us for a dinner — our place at 8:00. Red or white? Get some red, I'm told.

Indian, ouzo, dubstep and two visiting Spanish girls who just flew in from Madrid. A nightclub. Then another. I'm a designated driver and I don't mind. This is a third night in a row, and the best one, too. Sipping water, smoking joints, dancing. Me, dancing; so unusual. Enjoying the night far more than I'd have hoped for.

Is this guy a foreigner? — a random chick asks me in a club, pointing to a friend who passed out on the sofa. Nah, he's a pure local, babe, I grin. She's no longer interested, walking away disappointed before I finish the sentence. Bitch.

It's a late morning, the sun is up. Talking to one of our girls when the music stops. We'll cook a Spanish dinner, you must come, she urges me seriously. Sure I will. Driving them home through the streets filling with shoppers and tourists, kissing her goodbye.

Dropping unconscious as soon as I reach my bed. Filled with weird feelings, mess, yet content. Bring it on, life; I adore you anyway.

Encore

For the most part, I'm holding him tight as he's acting unpredictably. Poor slob, I wonder what his fate would be once he loses his true home. I feel for him. She cannot manage anymore and he's to go. This may very well be the last time I'm walking him.

We're strolling silently along each other and I smile at her whenever our eyes meet. I don't wanna talk; I enjoy this somewhat unpleasant situation — enough was said and I grew tired of repeating myself over and over again. She'd talk — I see she'd talk — if only I started and made it slightly easier for her.

Her place. She's inviting me in, just for a minute, she begs. There's no pretension, not a bit, and I'm aware this is the hardest part. The parting part. Please, stay, she looks at me and my heartbeat skips. She's pushing, it's crystal clear she'd like to spend more time with me.

Few weeks ago, I'd do, too, I'd love to shut the door behind me, seize her and throw her on the bed, tearing off her clothes and doing it. Tonight, I don't even fantasise. Bye, I utter — and I'm gone. Gone to heal my wounds.

Out there

Tell me I'll never have to be out there again — that's what Harry's and Sally's sidekicks promise each other after they receive withdrawn phone calls from their respective friends.

It's easy to comprehend why people are ready to accept unacceptable. Fear. Fear of being left alone and forgotten is what drives all those thirty-somethings to act; suddenly willing to compromise and settle. Often settle for less. Fear of being passed by. Fear of unknown. The same drives people to stay in not-so-overly-happy relationships. Linger, linger, linger a bit more. I understand the concept very well. Just am not willing to follow and participate anymore.

She's still filling my thoughts, throughout. I cannot stop thinking about her. Yet even as we spent evenings walking together I kept contemplating.

Was this to be? Such a simple question and such uncertainty. Forget it, I had been told by everyone in the know. Things done cannot be undone, I've known her already too well and cannot take all those moments back. It's late, far too late. So much for forgetting.

OK. Cool. Hopefully just a half a year of cold turkey and I'll be fine.

Or at least slightly better.