I bumped into my ex the other day. Well, to be honest, it was difficult not to. The man has grown. Sideways. A lot. So, I suppose given that we were in the same shopping centre, bouncing off his vast flabby flanks was unavoidable.
The Ex: (with a displaced look of satisfaction) Ah, Pant. How are you? (You know when they ask it, when they emphasise the 'you' and cock their heads a little to the side? Yup, like that.)
The Pant: Thin. And, well, I know the answer to 'how are you' but I'll ask it anyway - How are you, Mr Ex?
Ex: I'm well-
TP: Nothing. Carry on. No wait, can I just take off my heels? I need to get comfy for what I anticipate is a four hour long narcissitic rant that I know I won't enjoy and that you'll enjoy so much you won't even notice I'm nodding off or searching for blunt blades to end my life.
Ex: Yes, well I've met someone-
TP: And eaten her?
Ex: We're getting married-
TP: Poor woman.
Ex: Lovely girl-
TP: Ah, I see. You haven't lost your condescending quality.
Ex: Really supportive of me and my work-
TP: You have a job?
Ex: Got a new job-
TP: You mean 'first job'.
Ex: Really cutting edge stuff.
TP: Spare me.
Ex: It's got to do with...
And that's when I left. Not physically, mind you. My mind wandered off. I was in a most filthy state of heightened arousal with Jake Gyllenhall; I was ecstatic. Until I unblurred my eyes and saw the lump of lard carrying on before me.
Ex: You know what you've always been good at?
Ex: You're a really good listener.
Ex: We must get together soon. I'd love you to meet my fiance. Sounds so weird when I say that.
TP: I'm busy-
Ex: How about a braai at our place? Say next weekend.
TP: For the next million years.
Ex: Call me. We'll organise.
TP: Yup. Consider it done.