Mr Y

“Sometimes I find myself thinking how the hell did I get here? And sometimes I think I just cant do this anymore. I want time out, and I want help. But I don’t know where to start. Feel lost. A lost cause. Feel like giving up. But that’s all I ever do.”I looked up nervously at the man sitting opposite me. He was staring back at me.  Did I really just say all that out loud?
His name is Clive. But he doesn’t look like a Clive. I’m not sure why exactly, because I don’t even know any Clive’s, but you know what I mean. I’d say he looked more like a Simon, or as Mark, handsome with a clean shaven face and big blue sparkling eyes, hair slicked forward with gel but then with a slight quiff at the front, the way a lot of guys do these days.  Like Mr Y did. Damn! Must not let Mr Y creep into my mind, I’m here to sort my life out. It’s no use, he’s in my head now, so I may as well tell you about him.  

I first met Mr Y about ten years ago.  I had chosen to eat my lunch by the lake that day. Usually I would stay in the office and work through, but that particular day I had had the most annoying headache, partly due to the wine I had consumed the night before; my best friend Karen had landed on my doorstep, clutching two bottles of red and in possession of a broken heart. Welcoming her in to my flat, she began whining how Rob the nob (that’s what I called him) had just called things off, giving her the lame excuse of “I just don’t have time for a relationship right now”, which was true, seeing as he had been seen out with at least three other girls in the eight weeks that him and Karen had been together. But could I tell her that? It had kept me awake at night, worrying about how it would affect her, and our friendship, if I had came clean about what I had seen. So I will admit I took the cowards way out, so I’m a failure as well as a rubbish friend. 

So there I was, sat on a bench by the lake, nursing my hangover.  I probably looked as rough as I felt, I’d not bothered with make up that morning, just showered and scraped my hair back into a long ponytail before dragging myself to work. “Excuse me, have you got the time?”I pulled my aching head up, and moved my hand over the top of my eyes, to stop myself being blinded by the sun. There in front of me stood this guy, handsome but a bit rough around the edges. His jeans hung off his skinny frame and he needed a shave. But seeing as I wasn’t exactly looking my best today I wasn’t in a position to judge. His dark hair was styled like David Beckham’s, which was a bonus. And his scent. Oh he smelt good. 

The End

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