The date with MALCOM [the recently-separated friend] happened. It was about as messy as one would expect a date with their (technically) married friend to be.
We went to a rock show… along with everyone we collectively know. A tiny part of me wondered if going to such a public place was his attempt at revenge on the estranged wife. But after a few judgmental glares, MALCOM whispered, “I should have known better than to bring you here,” which made me a little feel better.
Although he is usually very shy, he put back enough beer to allow him to ramble on aimlessly, while putting his hand on my waist or knee every so often. His affection felt good, and he looked so good too. But it was clear that he was not ready to be dating again.
When the cab pulled up in front of my house, he followed me out for a proper good-bye. There was a long hug, followed by a couple sterile cheek-kisses. Then suddenly, as I pulled out of the embrace, there was a huge bang behind me and we instinctively grabbed eachother and swung around to see what the noise was. A van had smashed into a parked car, sparking a small fire and MALCOM hugged me again, muttered into my neck, “Kinda looks like my life.”
He called a few minutes later to announce that he was home and that “next time” will be better, though I am not sure I want to find out.
