He was too liberal with his love; the way men get when they find themselves in a race against the receding tide of their hairline. Or maybe he was not. Maybe what I felt was postmodern emotion. The kind feminists once thought the anecdote to inequality at the workplace, and a way of sticking it to stilettos. You see, on paper he was amazing. A real Fabio Lanzoni. He’d do things like renting a bunch of chick-flicks and delivering a tub of Ben & Jerry’s to my door when he knew it was ‘that time of the month’. Most girls would swoon at such a gesture. Or would they? In any case, I didn’t.
And it got me wondering. I thought about it for three nights. I know it was on the third night that I had a break through because that was the night of Cherrie’s party, where the wine flowed freely and everybody felt jolly till about 2:30 AM. Then it was time to call an Uber. Back in Shoreditch I entered my apartment that as of that morning was empty, as Bernie had gone to visit her folks for the bank holiday.
I poured myself a night cap and stepped onto the balcony; ready, as I always was, to face those demons that only surfaced when I found myself drunk, alone, and feeling profound. Amidst the swirl of thought and emotion, it occurred to me that George was absolutely and entirely delightful. And that that was what bugged me. He was always happy. But not in the way people are when they are optimistic; rather, the state of being reserved for that rare breed able to cross the threshold of adulthood without ever having suffered. And by that I mean, truly suffered.
*Part of the Postmodern Emotion series: A series of passages that pay homage to the curious evolution of contemporary relationships; or arguably, lack thereof.