I woke up one day and realised that things were terrible. I walked to the kitchen, smoked and called in sick. I ate an apple before heading to my car and driving off to Nowhere. I’d never driven around in the nine o’clock morning before; not in that way, anyway. Things were so bright and damp and the people in their cars, although still slightly in a morning daze, looked different from the zombies I’d see driving home at midnight, or at two in the morning, or at four in the morning.
Eventually I drove to where the receptionist worked.
“I’m outside your work.”
She came out and it was great to see her. She was wearing some kind of blue dress and she had a purple scarf around her neck. She’d gained weight, but she still looked good. We walked to a café nearby and I watched her eat lunch and she asked me about life and I asked her about hers. I mentioned a girl who no longer loved me; she mentioned a guy she loved from the bottom of her heart.
“You’re wearing a polo shirt,” she said, killing a cigarette into an ashtray. “You look like a wanker.”
“Speaking of wanking, remember when…”
We started talking dirty. It was loud and it was disgusting but we didn’t care. Cunts and cocks came out as easily as pots and pans. We hissed about erupting chocolate penises and giant vagina lakes. I couldn’t explain it but every dirty word imaginable just puked out of our pores and into the public: I’d never been so happy.
I paid the bill and we walked back to her office building and we hugged awkwardly. She showed me a photo of her new man. She told me that she wished she never left me, but then didn’t say what she was going to do about it. We said goodbye. I went to the gym, ran on the treadmill and watched the wall in front of me move up and down for twenty minutes.