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.
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