Came across this text, which presumably I must have written at some point.
–
I found myself standing on that street corner for hours. I knew after the first twenty minutes she wasn’t going to turn up, and yet I stayed there, watching the traffic through the rain, trying to pick apart the chain of emails we shared over the last week, trying to identify the little hints and subtle nuances that ultimately led me to this point here, standing along and hating myself just a little more than an hour before. This is what happens, I thought with hollow fury, when you try and be part of the human race.
My phone buzzed. I was on it before it had finished, flicking open the clamshell. A million different responses flooded my vision and I found myself blinking furiously in order to read the text I had just been sent. From her.
Sorry. It said. I didn’t *feel* anything when we spoke on the phone. Thought this was the best way to break it to you.
She polished this line off with a little sad smiley. I thought maybe a picture of a naked man being kicked forcibly in the testicles would have been less painful.
I started to reply immediately, a hundred conciliatory phrases breaking furiously across the sharp rocks of derision and rejection, and then I stopped, and looked up.
Across the road, somebody was taking a picture of me.
–
I like the last line. Immediately raises a whole raft of questions in the reader’s mind. For the live of me I can’t remember what the answers exactly were…
