The Streets Are Ours – II

“Damon, you remember Hillary, don’t you?” Deborah chimed in – light relief from the several moments of silent hostility. Hillary was such a posh name. I couldn’t stop thinking that she paid vast resemblance to Hillary the rodent from Fleabag. And the truth was, no, I didn’t know who she was. She was a grainy figure from the floor two lift; a momentary passerby; an occasional exchanger of hellos and goodbyes when signing out for the day.

People are so fixated on fake Instagram friends nowadays. You receive tweets from old college mates you’d spent years trying to forget about – usually a filtered photo of a fruit bowl with a couple of meticulously-placed apples inside: #livingmybestlife. You feel obliged to like the photo and end up sinking deeper into the quicksand of who’s got more followers, that you find yourself with a twelve-hour screen time, drained battery, trying to make your coffee table look photogenic.

Jules was my best mate. We’d known each other since primary: Skinheads till we die. She was a living, breathing encyclopedia of pointless myths, each embellished with her own child-like simplicity. She’d say things like “If you eat an apple core, does a tree grow inside of you?” It’s hard to expose yourself so nakedly to someone in these days of dominant social media, so I still cherished the blissful years of friendship we had together. Times when people’s idea of a relationship wasn’t just a joint Netflix account. 

Hillary began to relay a Ted Talk she’d seen on the art of conversation, which clearly didn’t give her any tips. I smiled and occasionally let out the odd fascinated giggle, subtly checking the lock screen of my phone for time updates. I’d read about people like Hillary: secretly fragile, obsessive, tentative. I felt sorry for her in a way. But not sorry enough to stay for another half an hour. I told Rick that I was tired and needed an early night — which was partially true. Who knew that two tipsy hours of strained conversation could be so physically draining? I gave Hillary Jules’s phone number, assuming that I could get her to let her down gently with a sympathetic WhatsApp. Jules was much better at talking to people than I was. 

The night ended like any other: me crying into a large glass of Merlot like some depressed Bridget Jones character. Sex Education was on in the background. I liked to watch shows about teenagers as it would rekindle me with my years of worry-free adolescence – when I could explore urban fashion choices without being accused of a mid-life crisis. Things with Hillary would be fine, amicable even. Just as long as I didn’t run into her at the office Christmas party.