I got a call from an old mate last year — a bloke I've not spoken to since I was fourteen. For no particular reason, we just went in different directions, and then never crossed paths. And then the years passed, and so did the seasons, until it got to a point where reaching out after so long felt like treason — to that unspoken manly concept of not being the first to text and say, "How's it going?"
Now things are less hectic, but those Sunday morning hangovers aren't fucking slowing. And then randomly — he called. He said, "How many years has it been, old friend?" I said, "At least ten, but I still see your posts on Instagram now and then." He told me I should know better than to see life through such a tinted lens — that Instagram bollocks is all pretend.
I asked, "What do I owe the pleasure? Was it a call for business or leisure? Have you worked out where those dealers from my hometown finally buried their treasure?" He laughed — the same laugh he always had, giggly. And we used to take the piss out of him for it, but now it felt comforting — like a flashback in time, way after, brought upon me by laughter.
He said, "No rhyme, no reason for the call. My mum asked how you were — she knew we were thick as fools. And I didn't have an answer." He said, "I know you're doing well, and you're still an attention seeker, because all you do is post — but in honesty mate, you've never felt less close."
Which is bizarre for a man whose bare ass cheeks I've seen more than most. I told him I'd stopped mooning people out of bus windows — on account of being twenty-eight and the concept of being absolutely gross.
We chatted for ten minutes more, and agreed to meet up when things got less busy. I was up to my eyeballs in work, and his master's thesis was making him dizzy. And I fully intended to catch up with him — a proper catch-up over something fizzy.
But I've never got the chance. Well, actually… that's not true. I never made the effort to create the chance. I had a ton of time for first dates, so I could socially advance. I had time for randomers who only ever gave me "can'ts." I even ran a fucking marathon in France.
But now he's not here anymore, and I've missed his last dance. And boy, do I wish I was fourteen again — to see my old friend. Because now, that's twice I've said goodbye, not knowing I'd never see him again.