The Red Pill

By Sigge S. Amdal

Ignorance is bliss.

I was far away in thought when I was interrupted at my table. I was sitting outside, in the shade, but the sun kept the molecules vibrating at a comfortable level around me. They'd just put some jazz on, and the outlook for a nice day in the sun looked promising.

"YOU!"

It was a lady, a young girl, dressed in casual clothing, with her hair nicely set up and her face set in iron stone. Her eyes were twitching from anger. There was no question about who she was addressing.

"Me?"

"Yes! What the hell are you doing here?"

"What?"

She was almost screaming at me, and I was suddenly under the intense evaluation of the other people around us.

"How dare you?! How the fuck do you dare to do this to me?"

"What? I've never seen you before!"

"I waited at my parents' house for two hours until I had to make up some excuse for why the fuck you wouldn't show up!"

"Listen to me. You must be mistaking me for someone else."

"Don't try me, you fucking bastard."

She sat down without an invitation and picked out one of my cigarettes.

"Do you want to split up with me? Is that it?"

"Listen, I have no idea what you are talking about."

I tried to remain calm, even though strangers around my belongings seriously freak me out. I've been robbed one time too many. But this was insane. Was she insane? Tripping?

"The breakfast with my parents! You know how much it meant to me. And my mother! She's never going to shake your hand after this. You know how conservative they are when it comes to keeping ones' appointments. And frankly, so am I!"

"You misunderstand."

"Misunderstand? What the hell is there to misunderstand?! You stood me up this one time when it really mattered to me! And you knew it! I'm not important to you at all, am I?"

I could feel the judgment of all the female observers in the vicinity. They all knew how it was, and this time I was the scapegoat for all their pent up frustration. Except I was no willing part in the play. She stared at me defiantly.

"Do you want to end it? 'Cause I sure can't go on like this! Fuck you and fuck your fucking ego!"

She dropped the face and began to cry, as tensions rose around me. The waiters stopped waiting tables, people stopped talking; they were just exchanging knowing glances and judgmental comments. The men were just happy someone else got the worst of it, and made a mental not to self to Buy Flowers for the Missus. I was beginning to sweat.

"Please," I said and leaned a bit forward with my hand on the table. "Please don't cry."

"Don't fucking tell me what to do! Don't you love me anymore?"

"Love you? I just met you two minutes ago. No, I don't love you."

Some sense of realization dawned on her, and she composed herself.

"Fine," she said, drying her tears.

"I'm sorry," I said generally, trying to be the better stranger of the equation.

"Don't be. It's me that's sorry." She picked up her purse and stood up.

"Goodbye," she said. "I hope you'll be happy now."

"Me too," I said.

Then she left.

I looked into the table as soon she turned around and disappeared, and took a sip of coffee. My hand was shaking. The crowd was slowly shifting attention though I was certainly somewhere in the conversation. What a heartless bastard I was, and so on.

I shook my head. What a bizarre thing to happen. But I wouldn't be welcome here for a while now, judging by the waitresses' stern looks. I gathered my belongings getting ready to leave in a walk of shame. I fumbled in my pockets for my keys.

They looked strange. Still, I knew they were mine.

"OH SHIT!" I shouted, before I ran as fast I could to catch up with my girlfriend.


Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.