Dumped, Actually(11)

With hands plunged deeply into my pockets, I amble with my head down over to one of the edges of the concrete building, not paying attention to my surroundings until I lean against the wall and look out.

That pink sun really is quite lovely. And in other circumstances it would put something of a smile on my face.

Not today, though. No smiles for Oliver Sweet today.

My brain returns to mull over the question that has dominated my thoughts for the past couple of weeks.

How could she?

How could she?

You know how bad it is when a song gets stuck in your head for days? Well, that’s nothing to having a simple three-word question lodged in there like a cancerous tumour.

At least you get to hum a little tune when you’re stuck with an earworm song.

Repeating the same rancid question over and over in your head is enough to drive anyone mad.

. . . or up to the top of a car park – where they have no intention of jumping, of course. None whatsoever.

How could she?

How could she do it?

How could she throw away everything we had together?

After all of that time?

I thought we had a bond. I thought she loved me as much as I loved her. I thought it was finally right. I thought it was . . . meant to be. I thought she was the one!

The evening’s pink glow is blurred by a sudden flurry of unwanted tears.

Why does this keep happening to me?

I’m a pretty good bloke . . . I think.

I’ve never lied or cheated. I’ve never been anything but respectful. I’ve always tried to be kind. I’m a good man. I really am. I don’t brush up too badly when you stick me in nice clothes. I have a decent chin. Somebody once told me I looked a little like a young Keanu Reeves, and that felt just fine. My penis is perfectly adequate. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it can look quite impressive when it’s nice and warm, and I haven’t masturbated in a while. I’ve never had any complaints in the bedroom. I’ve not been told I’m a sex god either, but we’ll take that one on the chin and move on, safe in the knowledge that performance-wise I’m a good seven or eight at least.

So, why does this keep happening to me?

The pink sunlight has no answers for me. Nor do the people coming out of Aldi laden down with lamb joints and Moreos.

I lean out over the concrete wall, looking straight down at the pavement far below. I’m struck by a momentary wave of vertigo, but force myself to keep looking.

I am not suicidal at all. Not at all.

But I can also feel the weight distribution in my body starting to tip forward a little. If I were to – oh, I don’t know – lift one leg up slightly, it might continue that process even more. I do this, just curious to see if I’m right or not.

Yes. Look at that. My entire body weight has shifted forward, and I’m now leaning quite far out over the wall. Not enough to risk falling, you understand. Not at all. For that to become anywhere near a reality, I’d have to take my hands out of my pockets, and place them on the wall. If I did this and pushed a little, then that would probably start to make this situation quite precarious. Even dangerous, you might say.

I take my hands out of my pockets and put them on the wall. Gently, I push away, in the direction of the pink sunlight.

Oh my.

Oh my, oh my . . .

Now my heart is racing. The one leg still on the ground is trembling.

How could she?

How could she?

HOW. COULD. SHE?

Now I’m in real danger of falling forward. The only thing stopping me is the clear and certain knowledge that I did not come up here to commit suicide. I have never come up here to commit suicide, and I will never come up here to commit suicide. Not at all.

A little more . . .

A little more . . .

A little less . . .

A little more . . .

‘Fuck about, chief. If you’re going to do it, do it, otherwise move over, will you?’

An involuntary scream bursts from my lips and, just for a split second, I am falling.

This is it. This is where it all ends.

And then my subconscious mind decides that it’s had quite enough of this bullshit and takes over. It makes my hands grasp the concrete wall as tightly as possible, and thrusts both of my legs backwards. This arrests the tipping motion enough to pull me away from the brink, and I stumble back from the wall, all the blood draining from my face.

‘Oh my God!’ I wail.

‘Pfft. He’s got nothing to do with it, mate.’

I look over to my right to see that sat on the wall about ten feet away from me is a tall, skinny man dressed in a white vest, with the England football team logo embroidered on it, and a pair of what look like women’s shorts, so garishly patterned with brightly coloured flowers that it hurts my eyes to look at them. He’s also wearing a rather worn pair of black flip-flops.

The man is incredibly pale, and has a haunted look in his eyes that makes his entire face seem somehow sunken in on itself.

‘Who—’ I start to say, still feeling incredibly discombobulated.

The man sniffs, wipes his nose with one long, almost emaciated forearm and rolls his eyes. ‘Someone who’s bloody fed up of watching you dry hump that wall, pal.’

‘I wasn’t going to jump!’ I spit out. For some reason I feel the intense need to convince this complete stranger of that. Just in case he’s reaching for his phone to have the men with white coats come over and take me somewhere padded.