They were standing in his flat, or more precisely, his kitchen. He had one of those disgusting modern kitchens, you know, all black and silver, with stainless steel contraptions hanging from every available spot. It could’ve been a dentist’s inner sanctum, or the torture chamber of a psycho. Regardless, it screamed to the world that whoever designed this kitchen was a man who was hurtling towards death. A desperate, sad little man who was closer to forty than he’d care to admit, desperately clinging onto the very last strands of youth. A man who was currently trying to break up with his twenty-one year old girlfriend, wearing one of those cheap-looking political T-shirts from Camden Market, bleached hair reflected in the metal jungle that he had mistakenly thought was hip. In other words, a douche bag.
The relationship with the foetus was getting serious and he needed an escape route. It wasn’t like he could take her home to his mother. The old bat almost had a coronary every time a box was opened on Deal or No Deal; imagine introducing her to a girl who barely remembered Noel’s House Party. “Listen, I know this relationship means a lot to you, but I can’t...I can’t do this anymore.” As expected, he was reeling off tired old clichés, the biggest being himself. His sagging lips trembled as he noticed a flash of anger in his girlfriend’s eyes...or was that just light reflecting off his sautéing pan? “The staring, the whispering...I just can’t deal with the attention from having a younger girlfriend right now...it would be best just to call things off. I’m...I’m really sorry.” There was silence for a couple of minutes. Tony tried to be a good guy, he really did, but he couldn’t help his mind drifting off to thoughts of that juicer he saw last week in Debenhams. He instantly regretted not purchasing it at the time, but he’d just bought some new Converse and a Quentin Tarantino DVD Box Set, and he didn’t want to have to carry it all home. The funny thing was, he couldn’t even cook. Not a sausage. The material objects he coveted were just an extension of his horribly inadequate penis.
Crystal (I know it’s an awful name, I didn’t choose it) opened her mouth then instantly closed it. She looked like a male goldfish in drag. Not that I think women should look natural, god no – but there are limits to the amount of makeup you should cake on your face. Why don’t you try seeing a doctor about your acne instead of adding to the problem with cheap makeup? Just a thought. Anyway, Crystal was standing there, her over painted face mirrored a hundred times by various shiny kitchen utensils, considering her next words very carefully. She didn’t want to lose this one. He was getting on a bit, sure, but he owned a car and had connections that got them into all the best clubs. Still, he did seem to have aged a little recently. Maybe it was the harsh halogen lighting. “Do you have a problem with people staring at us? Who cares what they think.” Crystal’s tone was nonchalant, but she, like Tony, gave a huge shit about what people thought of her. That was the problem.
“It just makes me feel awkward, just a bit...You know I don’t really like...” Tony trailed off miserably. He’d never been good with words, always leaving the listener to fill in the expansive gaps in his conversation. It didn’t stop him writing appallingly bad poetry about world injustices and how his ex-girlfriends were all sadistic bitches who left him to pine away late at night for months on end, while he listened to My Chemical Romance and watched his last bit of dignity slip out of the window, although it did stop him posting his poetic works on MySpace. Oh, except for that one time where he got really drunk on red wine, and woke up the next morning to various comments from both male friends (“You fag, stop writing emo poetry n get a fookin life!”) and female friends (“If it was really that bad, you knew where the door was! Fuck you Tony!”) on one of his less articulate sonnets.
Crystal was torn. On the one hand, she kind of liked hanging out with Tony. She didn’t really get his jokes, but his self-deprecating laugh was really cute. He also had a great DVD Collection (he really did, if you discount the horrifying hentai he kept in a box under his bed). On the other hand – she loved drama. And she was a bit creeped out that he resembled her Year Twelve English teacher. Fuck it, her period was due and she fancied a fight. “Awkward? Awkward? You know what’s awkward? When your boyfriend dumps you wearing a T-shirt with a fucking mass murderer on it. You know what’s awkward? Fucking someone who has wrinkles and uses the same brand of hair dye as my father. You know what else is awkward? Having to tell everyone that I was dumped by you! You old aged pensioner!” If there was one thing she was good at, it was making something out of nothing.
Tony was normally a bit meek, but this tirade really pissed him off. Also, the bitch had spilled Blue WKD on his tiger print rug last week and he still hadn’t quite forgiven her. He decided to go for the jugular. “Well we can’t all be perfect...you’re certainly not as thin as when I first met you...” Ok, not that cutting. But it did the trick. “Not as thin? Not as thin? So basically you’re saying I’m a whale?” She screeched so loud, the poor guy next door had to turn up the volume of Top Gear. His downtrodden wife, in mid-rant to her sister over the phone about how much of a dick her husband was, came to resent him that tiny bit more. God, women. He would listen to her whining later, but right now Top Gear was on. Top Gear! Who doesn’t love that show? Even people who hate cars love that show. They don’t have a whole channel dedicated to it for nothing.
Back in the kitchen, Tony was back peddling wildly. “No, I didn’t say...I was just angry and said something out of spite. I’m sorry.” Despite his apology Crystal was not in a forgiving mood, even though she had the most to apologise for. Insignificant facts like that didn’t really concern her. Not when she was really angry. Actually, not ever. Lowering her voice menacingly, she snarled, “How dare you tell me I’m fat? Get out.” This was accompanied by an emphatic pointing somewhere in the direction of the door. Tony was taken aback. What? “What?” he replied, utterly confused. “Oh I’m sorry, couldn’t you hear me? Why don’t you turn up your hearing aid?” was her reply. Seriously, I love these guys’ repartee. Tony had to spell out the obvious to his beloved, the dumb leading the retarded. “This is my flat! Besides, there’s no need to be so fucking immature about this.” Crystal was lightening quick with her defence. “I guess everybody must seem so immature to you, since you’re so fucking old!”
On that bombshell, Tony’s resolve hardened. Not only had she ruined his carpet and insulted his fashion choices, she also had the audacity to goad him about his one weak spot: his age. God damn it, the man had some pride. (Oh, who am I kidding?) Tony looked at the wooden floor, breathed in then look back at Crystal. He really thought he might have loved her at one point, back when they were happier; but one day as he was cleaning out his closet of Doctor Who memorabilia he realised that she could never compare to the happiness he felt possessing material items, and since then it had never been the same. The rush of feelings to his chest when he thought of that never-opened figurine of Sarah Jane Smith gave him the courage to finally say what he really wanted to. “I just hope you’re gone when I get back.”
It was only after he left the house that he realised he’d missed Top Gear.
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