That one minute of contrived formality felt like it didn’t really stop. I was informed that such events occurred in a more complex, socially-disjointed, inconsolable form just last week.
Allegedly, claimed my friend, he was “so drunk, everything had just blurred into one.”
He couldn’t remember how he done it (it still evades him) but by his own volition, he’d managed to stage, not only a coherent conversation with his ex’s parents’ by phone, he’d also stumbled into a taxi, straight to their front door, into their house.
Obviously my friend did not break-in nor burgle the property.
No. The ex’s parents were also inebriated, extending an offer for him to come over, to drink, to eat, to generally reminisce.
He arose the next morning, to a feeling of drunk-disorientation and worrying familiarity, accompanied by that emptiness all too synonymous with a hazed demeanour.
He told me “it was the most awkward moment of his life” as they proceeded to bring a tray of breakfast and smiles of acceptance.
I genuinely don’t think he’s been the same since.