as they psychoanalyse an ex-boyfriend’s behaviour.
‘And then I said, look, at our age, it’s normal to want to label it. But he made me feel like I was crazy …’
‘They’ll do that. They’ll do that. How long had you been seeing each other anyway?’
‘Six months …’
‘And he still wouldn’t call you his girlfriend?’
‘He said labelling it ruined it, and he thought I’d be cooler than that.’
‘I’m so confused.’
‘Me too.’
‘Tim was like that, remember? I went to his grandma’s fucking funeral but he still wouldn’t make it official.’
‘Fuck him.’
‘Fuck all of them.’
‘You can’t message him tonight.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You will. If you have more than five J?gers, I’m taking charge of your phone …’
‘No, I’ll be fine …’
Megan overhears too and rolls her eyes at me, before digging in her bag for a kirby grip. I twist back to the front, exhausted just from listening. I remember all those conversations. How my girlfriends and I would meet up and no matter how exciting the rest of our lives were, talk mainly about some guy: ‘Why did he do that?’ ‘What does it mean?’ ‘No, I do think he loves me, he’s just not making it clear at all with any of his behaviour.’ I remember feeling exhausted even back then, as we collectively squeezed ourselves out of juice trying to convince ourselves men did really like us, despite all the evidence to the contrary. There were so many luxurious excuses we could lather on back then. Like we were young, and of course men don’t want to settle down at this age. We could sort of give them the benefit of the doubt, even though it hurt us and made us worry they wouldn’t get there by the time we needed them to. I remember wishing, just wishing, to be the age I am now, when I assumed all men’s lights would turn on, like taxi cabs that are finally ready to take you home. I imagined that once you were older you’d fly over previous hurdles, because we’d be grown-ups now and now is not the time to piss about any more. But nothing has changed. No one has evolved. Not really. Even my female friends who have managed to catch a husband in their determined butterfly nets whinge about men. Their marriages are more like an elaborate charade to cover the fact they’re essentially just babysitting a resentful, overgrown Man-Child:
‘Brought back all his friends the other night. Insane drunk. They all thought it would be hilarious to take their trousers off. Woke me and Charlie. Found that even more hilarious. I honestly thought he’d grown out of this … It’s his job. A bad influence. If he could just change companies, then I think it would all be fine.’
‘Oh April, I probably shouldn’t tell you this. I’m drunk. It’s just … I guess I just assumed, since we were married, that we’d start a family, but he says he isn’t ready, which is fine, but I’m 33 and I want a big family and I’m not sure how wise it is to wait but he said it’s selfish to rush him.’
We step forward again. The bouncers are in sight now, standing in direct sunlight in their black uniforms and looking like melted icing on a cake. The sun is still high and honking in the sky. I don’t think it’s ever going to rain again, or that this new anger I feel will ever wane.
In a surge of efficiency, we’re suddenly past the bouncers and entering the throbbing darkness of Calculus. The summer sun becomes a instant memory as the doors swing closed behind us. The place is covered in red carpet, so the rich men can feel like, yes, this is how things are supposed to be. And gold everywhere, because of the aforementioned rich men.
‘This is going to be terrible,’ Megan announces, with a wild smile on her face. ‘God, you’re a good friend for coming.’
‘Can you please just pull quickly so I can go home and watch Dawson’s Creek?’
Megan pouts. ‘Honey, please, you are dealing with a professional. Though God it’s uncomfortable wearing a bra,’ she adds. ‘How do you do it every day?’
We clop along the red carpet towards the bag check at the top of the stairs, where cheesy music burps up from the mouth and lights scatter the wall. After a swift argument with the security about why I’m not allowed to bring in my emergency cheese and celery sandwich, we descend, sandwichless, to the