There she is

There she is.

I can’t believe she had the nerve to show up here after what she did to me. And what in god’s name is she wearing? Swaggering through the door in a costume that barely covers her arse—I thought we’d evolved beyond that.

Is she a cat? A sexy witch? Doesn’t matter to the lads at the door. Already she’s been accosted by a gaggle of them. Oh, look, a vodka lemonade has found its way into her hand like it’s a bloody magnet.

Christ, Steve brought it over. He’s not your bartender, Steph! 

And what time does she call this? Toni said to arrive at seven. 

--

Oh god, there she is.

How bad would it be to hide in the bathroom? Glad I was fashionably late—she’s probably been here since seven. Now it’s crowded, I can pretend I haven’t seen her.

What a ridiculous costume. Dressing up as a bowl of cereal wasn’t funny at uni, and it isn’t funny now. How did she even fit through the door?

“Oh, thanks, Steve!”

What a lifesaver. I’ll need a drink if I have to deal with her later. 

Well, I’ll be civil if she will.

--

I’ll be civil if she will. Maybe we can peacefully coexist. That is, if she doesn’t march right up to me and start taking the piss out of my costume like she did in third year.

No sense of humour, that one. When I leave the party, I can say cheerio. That’s a great joke. 

But I can’t leave now—too obvious. Plus, don’t I have every right to be here? If she’d thought about it for more than two seconds, maybe she’d have done the bigger thing and stayed home. For just one party. 

--

Couldn’t she have stayed home for just one party? She’s so incredibly stubborn! It’s that big brain of hers she likes to lord over everyone. 

She’ll never admit it, but she looks down on me. Some friend. If she wanted to sulk, she could have done it perfectly well in her own home—no need to come out and probably bitch about me. I was only trying to help! 

She must know I was only trying to help.

--

Seeing her here makes my blood boil. I can’t stop thinking about how she completely and utterly let me down. She’s slunk out of view for now, thank god.

All I wanted was a little space to deal with everything. I suppose she wouldn’t understand since she’s never been dumped. You’d have to be in a relationship to get dumped, and Steph is far too busy flitting around in sexy cat costumes. 

She said she wanted me to get back out there, and that’s why she did it. I think she just wanted a laugh at my expense. 

What kind of person comes over unannounced with six complete strangers in tow? 

--

What kind of person rejects six perfectly good rebound options?

I spent hours curating those men—calling on my single friends, getting introductions, asking my brother if he knew anyone. And the six I ended up with were perfect for Rita.

But no, she had to go and make it weird. I think she called me a pimp at one point. 

Really, it was just a surprise party. Me, her, some lads, and a few bottles of bubbly. How could anyone fail to get over a breakup with that at your door?

And anyway, it was a great party. I even brought the inflatable unicorn.

--

The lads were awful, obviously, but that inflatable fucking unicorn sealed the deal. She says she owns the thing ironically, but there’s nothing ironic about keeping it in the kitchen and calling it Sandra.

I hate surprise parties, I hate tat, and I hate people who don’t know these basic facts about me after seven years of friendship.

Plus, the thing about inviting yourself over unannounced is that you can’t guarantee your host is fit to receive company. It was completely humiliating.

--

How was I supposed to know she’d answer the door in her dressing gown? It’s not my fault the damn thing’s full of holes and turned a weird gray colour. It’s a little short as well. I think she’s had it since middle school.

So she was in her pyjamas. So what?

She could have just slunk upstairs and showered—she scrubs up good. When she isn’t dressed like a children’s breakfast. 

--

I don’t know what sort of first impression she expected me to make on those guys. Pyjamas, old dressing gown, greasy hair, bags under my eyes. The classic breakup look.

I put on some jeans but refused to do more. I had a glass of prosecco, sure. But I was not in the mood to talk. I thought if I sat quietly and had a quick drink with them she’d know I was trying to be polite, but wasn’t feeling it.

Then she just sat there expectantly, trying to get me to engage. Why couldn’t she take the hint?

--

The way she sat there sulking the whole time was totally rude. If she wanted us to leave, why didn’t she say so?

You can’t get pissed about something you agreed to, Rita. I think she’s just bitter that none of the lads were into her. Well, maybe they would have been if she’d bothered to actually speak to them.

--

I suppose Steph’s never been great at taking hints. She’s so uncomplicated.

It’s one of the things I love most about her but she’s got no self-awareness sometimes.

--

At least she didn’t shout at me—or those poor men. I guess she didn’t want to offend them. She’s actually really sweet, even to strangers it turns out.

I hoped the party would cheer her up but it’s obviously only made things worse. Wasn't she just being a martyr when she said she wanted to be alone? Who wants to be alone after going through something like that? 

Rita does. Oh shit. I should have listened to her. Double shit. I’d better apologise. Where’s she gone? 

Ah, there she is—easy to spot in that weird cardboard bowl.

--

It’s just that we deal with things so differently. She wants to party, and forget, and make the time pass faster until whatever happened is only a hazy memory. And...she wanted that for me. 

She was only trying to help, I suppose. And I just sat there being moody, without telling her why.

Maybe I’ve been too harsh. If I could just find her and talk to her we could— 

There she is.