I just need a little time away. Take care x

Kelly?????

I look around in the park. There is nothing soothing. Everything is dead and dying and dirty. I look at Suzy Brambles’ feed. And, horrors (seek and ye shall find), there’s a new picture of Art and Suzy at a café. They are messily eating ice creams, is there anything better in life! This warrants several ice cream emojis and some starbursts. They’re really going for it now, no holds barred. Jenny knows, so let’s let rip. Fuck off. Fuck off both of you. And mostly fuck off ice cream. It’s November. Has no one any self-respect? I’ve always believed that emoji use is a pretty good gauge of mania, and right now, from where I’m standing, Suzy is on the edge.

I leave a careful comment: Looks delish! With one emoji. A sane, simple yellow heart. Not as demanding as a red heart. Sort of more carefree.

Suzy does not like my comment.

I imagine them discussing my comment. Naked, post-coital, with espresso martinis. So delightfully capricious wurhahhah …

I wait ten minutes, and then I delete it.

I instantly regret deleting it.

I wonder whether I can retype it quickly and put it back or whether they will have noticed and see that I typed it twice. I don’t want to look unconfident or weird.

But maybe I do want them to talk about me. I want to be in between them as they’re walking along. I wonder whether he’s giving her a hard time for using her phone.

I could always blame it on a bad connection. I’ve posted things twice by accident several times before. Well, once. It’s feasible. But when – when would I get my chance to explain myself? Unless I put it in an email to Art, or would that seem excessive?

With every second that passes I feel more panicked. My mind incessantly shrieks: It’s now or never! There’s a good chance she didn’t see it before I deleted it. Not everyone checks their comments every ten seconds. And if they do then that makes them the ones with the problem, does it not? Yes! This justifies it. If Suzy notices that I posted the same comment twice with two minutes in between, then SHE is the loser. Perfect.

I type it again.

I post it.

I look at it.

Oh god, I hate it.

I hate myself. I writhe inside. I feel uninhabitable. I need to bite something. Anything. Maybe my fist.

I notice that someone is looking at me from the next bench. They look away quickly into their burrito.

DRAFTS

BURRITOFACE,

DID YOUR MOTHER NEVER TELL YOU THAT IT IS RUDE TO STARE?

REGARDS,

JENNY MCLAINE BA HONS.

LOOK NO HANDS