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By Andrew Crosthwaite
John … I don’t really know how to describe him. He was my best friend, but it was a relationship of inequalities. I was weaker. He kept things that way, playing on my weaknesses and making jokes about me in front of mutual friends. He once started a rumor that I had kissed another boy. Fifteen years on, fully grown and married, I still haven’t lived that down.
Now he was here, sitting on a bench with a woman that I presume is his girlfriend, she’s stunning. I don’t think he’s seen me and I’m not sure whether I want to say hello. This person hurt and humiliated me, shattering my confidence.
The thing is that he was also my friend, and in many ways one of the best I’ve ever had. I was a shy and awkward kid and he gave me a certain strength. It felt good to know that this confident, handsome kid wanted me around. It was really through him that I became a part of the “cool” group. When I was 18, long after we stopped being good friends, everyone went out drinking to celebrate the end of our school exams. He was the one who looked after me when I passed out in a bar’s bathroom, my head resting on the rim of the toilet basin, vomit everywhere.
I said hello. He looked up and smiled, a strained smile that made me uncomfortable. Doubt and uncertainty consumed my mind. He had already seen me but was not going to acknowledge that. The last time we met he told me that I had hurt him also. At the time I didn’t believe it. I thought he said it to cover some of his wrongs. Now though, I understand. He was never as confident or self-assured as I believed. I abandoned him several times, choosing other friends over him.
He invited me to sit down and asked how I was. We chatted for a while, I with a growing feeling that not everything was ok. His answers were strange somehow; empty and vague as if he didn’t really know what we were talking about. He was holding a study book that he had been working in when I first saw him. Initially I guessed the book must be for his job but now I saw it was full of colorful pictures, a children’s book. Something wasn’t right, he wasn’t right. He looked like a guy with a learning disorder. For the first time since I sat down I noticed his girlfriend, she was giving me a long hard look.
John stood up and slowly, making sure I noticed, took out his cell phone. The action was bizarre and even comical. I didn’t know how to respond. Should I smile, or laugh even? I looked to his girlfriend for help. She was looking down, sad and tired. In a childish motion of affected casualty he gently shot-putted the phone down to the bench beside me. Reaching for his notebook, he slowly tore a strip of paper. His girlfriend moved a little closer, fixing me with the same hard look. This is the point where she explains what’s wrong. I can only guess that there was some kind of car crash. She doesn’t say anything though, so I whisper… “something happened?” John stares at us with anger and doubt. It occurs to me that he thinks there’s something going on between us. Until that point the thought of me with this girl hadn’t entered my head. I put the thought out of my mind, but not before a range of scenarios which all end in sex have flashed over my imagination. She’s not interested. She looks at him and shakes her head, her face kind.
“It was a head on collision.” I was right. “Look, he’s giving you his number. Call him.” She looks at me and her expression is full of anger and hatred. She’s been here before, with John’s other friends. I can picture them sitting here on this same bench, as bemused as I am by the strange routine with the phone. At first she was happy with these meetings, thinking it was great that John would keep in contact with some of his old schoolmates. Though as time went by, and with each friend who didn’t call, her happiness turned to hope, then to disappointment, and finally to bitterness and anger. Taking the number I promised myself that I would be different.
Weeks have passed, and with the memory of that meeting, one question has stayed in my thoughts. What does it say about me as a person, that somewhere down inside I feel good about what’s happened?
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