“some moments are nice, some are
nicer, some are even worth
– Charles Bukowski, War All the Time
I got a text from an ex the other week. I was out running at the time. The moment I saw it I freaked out and ducked down behind a car. I was surprised by my reaction. I pretended to do some push-ups and stretches.
The text was harmless, it just said “Hey, how are you? I was just at the old pub we used to go to and I thought of you”. My thoughts… Firstly, don’t tell a girl you thought of her because of your dank, piss soaked surrounds, Secondly, don’t admit you’re drinking at 3:30pm on a Monday. Lastly, just go away, it’s done. This is an unnecessary text.
I decided not to reply. A smart decision. The whole thing reeked of loneliness and I just didn’t have any kind of feelings left for the man. I continued on my run.
I didn’t think about him again. I did think about myself though. I dated that guy for a year. I would be able to identify his balls in a line up. At some point I probably entertained the thought of considering maybe spending the rest of my life with him. Now I’m diving in front of moving cars to avoid him. I think I tend to run away from properly dealing with things. Unlike the 3 hot Corrs girls and the 1 ugly brother, I wasn’t forgiving. I was just trying to forget everything. When I got home I ate about 2kgs of salad, deleted his text and went to bed.
I got another text a few days later. This one was much more pathetic. “Why are you ignoring me?” So typical, always a victim. I’d been drinking this time and thought about all the bitchy responses I could write. Then I remembered I didn’t care. Any response I was going to write at that time would be adding fuel to a fire and it’s summer so no one wants a fire, plus everything I wear is highly flammable and my brows are my thing. I once again deleted the text.
I haven’t heard from him since. This is a good thing. I was annoyed at how angry I felt about nothing. I had completely gotten over this person, why did I care about two silly texts? I wanted to focus on the good memories and not feel like I wasted another year. I find this really hard.
Fast forward two weeks. I had been at a staff party all day. I was fairly white girl drunk. I got to one of those rare and beautiful moments in my life when I realised I had enough for the night. I was one hiccup away from a spew. I knew it was time to go home. I ghosted. As I was sneaking out my phone died. It was a lovely evening and I decided a tram and a walk would do me good.
As I got off the tram, I noticed a black fluffy lump on the footpath. I thought it was a dead possum, I stepped over it. Seconds later the dead lump moved. It was a cat. The cat was very much alive. I gave it a quick pat and continued my walk. The cat continued to follow me. I stopped and patted it again. This continued the whole way home. I should mention at this point I was dressed as Jackie O and had at least 7 Aperol Spritzs and 14 beers in my system. I’m 100% sure I was talking to the cat. People thought I was insane. I don’t really care, the cat was a good listener.
As we approached my house. I thought about our future. Maybe I should just keep this cat. Sure it was someone else’s, but clearly he had chosen me. Even in my drunk state I knew this wasn’t an option, but I was having trouble letting go. I reached in to my bag to look for my keys. Seconds later I realised the cat was gone. He’d left me. I felt a pang of sadness then some anger. We had this magical little moment and now it was over. He didn’t even say goodbye. Cats were sluts, a pug would never do this.
I had my second moment of clarity for the evening as I struggled with the soda stream. Don’t focus on the end Annabel. Focus on the lovely times you had with that cat. He was never going to be yours forever and you didn’t want him to be. You don’t have to forget him entirely.
I woke up the next morning still wearing a pillbox hat and with nothing but nice memories about my evening with the cat. That fluffy little slut probably saved me a couple of dollars on therapy.