What do I want to do?

HarryPotter didn’t meet me at the train station, as he usually does, so I took the underground to his flat. Upon arrival the first thing he asked was, ‘What do you want to do?’

Do? He never asks me what I want to do. We just go off and do stuff. That’s what’s always been so brilliant about this friendship, we don’t necessarily need to plan. We just go.

I shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know. I just thought we could hang out.’

I plopped my bag in the hallway and he said, ‘The pub?’

‘Whew, the pub,’ I thought. ‘That’s an easy option. Start drinking, then maybe I’ll loosen up and consider telling HarryPotter that I could be.’ I couldn’t even finish the thought. Thinking it was too much, I’d never be able to say it. And drinking. Shit, if I am…well…that word…I can’t drink. Not if I’m going to keep it. Would I keep it? Maybe someone else would want it? Could I even do that? What about work, can I find a job that will hire someone who would be on maternity leave a few months after starting? Or if I became an independent agent, could I do that and have a baby? And Fife what about Fife, I don’t ever want to speak to him again, but would I have to talk to him. Oh fuck. This can’t be happening. It’s simply not even happening. I want to just go to the pub and forget it all. Shit, drinking. I shouldn’t drink, but I’ll probably start my period any minute, so I can drink.

I thought it best to stay off the booze until I knew for sure.

‘Maybe the cinema,’ I said.

HP shrugged and we left the flat.

In the car the conversation was a bit stilted. ‘So how’s work?’ ‘When’s your mum back?’ ‘You didn’t want to go to T in the Park this year?’

His answers were short, ‘Okay,’ ‘Next month’, ‘Nah. Haven’t been in years.’

Then I asked that question, that stupid question, ‘How’s Roger?’ As soon as I said it, I realised why I shouldn’t have. I totally forgot Roger’s girlfriend is pregnant. It was like I put my foot in it with myself.

‘I’m not talking to him much just now,’ said HarryPotter. ‘He’s flaking on his girlfriend, and he’s being a dick. Plus, he keeps trying to put me in the middle, and he’s mad I’m siding with her. You know, it took two people to get her knocked up. He needs to stop pratting about. I don’t know what he’s playing at, but it’s not cool.’

‘What’s he done?’ I ask.

‘He’s trying to pretend like it’s not his, and she must have been playing around on him. He’s fucking acting like a he’s on Jeremy Kyle. I’m just getting sick of it.’

‘Well, maybe she’s better off without him. Maybe she’d be better going on her own. Or maybe she tricked him, because you know sometimes both people aren’t equally responsible. Or maybe she’s not even really pregnant,’ I started yammering.

‘What are you on about?’ he asked. ‘Of course she’s pregnant, if she weren’t she’s gotten an isolated fat pocket across her stomach that kicks.’

Oh god. Kicking. They do that don’t they? Kick your innards. I don’t want to be incessantly punched in the intestines — from the inside. Oh my god, I can’t deal with this.

I dropped the subject and we road to the cinema in silence. Looking at the board we both had a winge that the film Brave has been released in the US but it hasn’t been released in Scotland yet. But other than that we couldn’t come to a consensuses as what to see. Eventually we settled on that Snow White movie.

I’ll be honest, I can’t give you a good review because I wasn’t really paying attention.

In the car back to HarryPotter’s flat, the conversation was a little better. He was yammering on about appropriating myth, and how the film seemed more like it was based on a graphic novel than a fairy tale, and then he started going on about the different representations of evil women in comics, and he, of course, preferred the sexy evil woman to the haggy witches.

I asked why the evil women had to either be sexy or a hag. Couldn’t they just be normal?

His response, ‘Because we’re talking about graphic novels and comics. No one is normal, and if they are normal, they get transformed pretty quickly.’

I give up.

He asked again if we should pop to the pub after the cinema, but I claimed that it was late and I was tired. I wouldn’t mind just hitting the bed when we got back to the house. We did just that. Came home and went to bed.

I’m now lying in darkness in HarryPotter’s spare bedroom. I can’t sleep. I don’t know why he’s acting the way he is. Has he been reading the blog? Does he know I’ve been posting about him even though he’s asked that I don’t? Does he know about my Fife predicament? Does he know all of this but doesn’t want to say anything?

I can’t sleep for so many reasons. I wish I would wake up in the morning to find that this was all a bad dream.

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