Somewhere buried deep in the confines of my head, there’s an old man that sits there with a stick. Needless to say he has a beard; it’s white, and the stick I think we all know what that is for. This man talks to me as I write this, and he sounds like Leonardo Dicaprio when he played Gatsby. There’s a way he calls Tobey Maguire, he calls him old sport. Let’s not even try to deny how good that sounds, it’s the voice of authority, of age. I will toss this name here and there from now on, (because I lack creativity to come up with my own shit) okay old sport? (See? It works)
Look here old sport, women are beautiful beings, they roam the earth with grace, they silently need you to take care of them, sometimes they’re tender around the edges, they break easy, and when they do they throw in the water works once in a while. They require your attention, you need to notice that she had her nails done, or the red lipstick she had yesterday is not the same as the red one today, sometimes they need someone to fuel their vanity, and that’s you old sport. You can never understand them, once you hit a rough patch they’ll say it’s fine when it really isn’t, your name will still be in the black book, they are a mystery, you will spend a good chunk of your life trying to decipher what they really want. But they are good, and because you’re always in pursuit of the good things you will forever be chasing, and you think that you will stop once you find the one that does it for you, the one that completes you but you won’t, another one will walk in through the door and you will find something else in her, something better than the first one. It’s not your fault old sport, it’s how you were built. They will come and go, and that is how they were built.
You will see her, even when you’re not looking for her. Work with me here old sport. She will have just turned to face the other side; you’ll only catch a glimpse of her pretty face, strands and strands of her braided hair will fall to her upper back. Her red and beige dress will be tightened a little at her waist, then go freely to end just below her knees. And then her legs will begin, legs with the color of perfection, they will drop to green flats, these legs. She will walk with ease, it will seem too natural, with a kind of smoothness. She will be light on her feet. You will watch her walk, and just like on the earth she will leave an imprint in your head. You will chase.
And then one day she will be gone. You will treat her right, and light numerous candles for her but it will never be enough. Both of you will be standing on a pavement around Moi Avenue, and she’ll have an empty look in her eyes, that’s how you’ll know she’s gone. You will have your hands chained into your pockets because you struggle not to hold her hand. You better not touch her old sport, not after she’s said something like, “I don’t think I can do this.” And don’t ask her why either, because then you’d be showing weakness, we don’t want that old sport now do we? You’d rather start to debate this on your own, is it your under-grown beard? Or it’s the colour of your sandals? The point is, you will never figure it out, what they want. Don’t shake her hand as you leave, she might think that you still want to be friends, and we don’t want that old sport now do we? So you give her a slow nod and a slight tap on the shoulder, then you walk away.
You see old sport, the world is skewed a little towards the gals. If you would be the one leaving her, she would somehow start to be better looking, her jeans will become fuller, so would her top, she’ll even look taller. Her waist will shrink, she won’t need that red lipstick anymore, her lips will be strawberry coloured on their own, shaped with perfection, like her legs. You remember that dress, it will be shorter now. She’ll start to smile more on her selfies, which won’t need any Instagram filters. They’ll come with painful captions like, Never settle. The world is too mediocre, or Happiness is never in one place.
But now she’s the one leaving you. Forgetting her would be easy if she smokes sheesha, what were you even doing with her in the first place right? But she wasn’t into that whole pot thing, once in a while she would have a vodka, we see nothing wrong with this. Still, she’s leaving. It’ll take time to sink in, and when it does you’ll need a stiff drink to keep you steady, but if you’re not careful, (and not broke) you will drown in brew and lose yourself. You will take long hot showers and eat more; eventually you will gain weight and end up looking like rubble. That’s just how it is old sport. Unfair.
So here’s what you do. You call your best friend and tell him to meet you at the local, because he’s the only one that knew of this girl, so he understands that you need a drink, and if something goes wrong, say you start looking for an axe to grind with the innocent barman, your friend will throw his hand around your shoulder and lead you to the side, before the bouncer gets there. Then he will make you look at him in the eye, and give you the talk. “Wee msee…” He will tell you that you need to get a hold of yourself, that you need to stop thinking about her, that there will be others, that she wasn’t all that anyway, and that you need to throw away those sandals of yours. He will settle the bill on your way out.
When you get home, turn off your phone, do it to isolate yourself from the world. Steer clear of sad slow music. Don’t listen to Adele or Ed Sheeran. Don’t watch anything with Katherine Heigl in it. Don’t drink any more beer. Don’t be hung up on her. Eat apples, wash your hair, read Stephen King, do push-ups once in a while, run in the morning before breakfast and take more water. You’ll forget her before you know it. And that, old sport, is how you move on.