Few people agree with my decisions to leave The Ex in my room, and to gather my thoughts at a soccer match. I don’t agree either. The problem only arises when you combine the two – which is inevitable.
Two things tempered my enthusiasm at having scored four goals. First, it was done at a match of zero significance. Second, The Ex had somehow managed to absolutely rearrange the setup of my room in my two-hour absence.
In consternation, I asked whether she was into powerlifting, or else she would never have moved some of the furniture in there. She evaded the question entirely and waited for me to compliment her. A little while later she had waited in vain. (I thought it was useful to set the tone in ensuring that The Ex felt like an ex.)
At the time, she was seated cross-legged in a corner of the room previously called The Office. Her yoga position sat well with my general opinion of her as an odd character. But my blood pressure mounted – shot up – when I saw my journal open before her.
Yes, I keep a journal. I write only one thing in there, namely, The Truth. I wondered whether she had already reached the pages pertaining to herself. The safe approach would be to ask.
“You shouldn’t be reading that,” I hazarded, choosing the roundabout course. Meanwhile I was inching innocuously closer… surreptitiously…. undiscernibly… craning my neck…
“Stop sneaking up on me,” she said, turned the page and came to a pair of blank pages. She had finished reading all written pages in my journal, those relevant to herself and whoever and whatever else I had deemed fit to include in my random musings.
She sighed. “Interesting,” she said, “Now I know you lied about Anita, and you take my sister more seriously than me.”
(The next five minutes or so are censored and/or partly forgotten, because unfair accusations of all natures came at me, and my verbal handicap in superheated arguments does not bear displaying here. Suffice it to say some people can make arguments feel like wrestling mismatches.)
At the end of five minutes she was marching away with her bag and I was struggling to maintain pace beside her with her other bag. The bag I was carrying was heavier than hers, so I should have been the one with the moist eyes and a fractious attitude, but somehow she took the trophy in both respects.
She chose a suitably loud matatu and opted out of waving back. The stare she fixed me still haunts me.
Disclaimer: I still play soccer.