Will Harris bumps into his ex

I am at a work event, waiting patiently in line for a frozen margarita, when the man in front of me at the bar turns around and freezes me. It is S. S is someone I dated briefly last year, midway through a protracted rebound period that went on far too long and bored everyone around me to death (including, I suspect, you). But of all the dates I was rebounding between like some demented pinball on a quest for an STI, S was the only one I thought might have gone somewhere. Unfortunately for me, that somewhere ended up being back to his ex and out of my life for good.

This is presumably why I find myself caught between alternating sensations of affection and what can only be described as bloodlust as I nod at him and say: “Hi.” I have said it too loud. I know that even in the split second before the sound leaves my mouth. In an effort to feign nonchalance, I have fallen into the classic mistake of taking all the emotion I’m trying to conceal and stuffing it into my opening line, thus imbueing the word ‘hi’ with a hyper-aggressive, Bruce-Lee-in-mid-air edge.

“As patronising statements go, telling someone to go and drink the drinks they are holding is pretty unforgivable”

If anything, I sound like I am preparing to split the bar in two with my head. “HAIII!” S raises his eyebrows.
“Hi,” he stutters. “I didn’t think you’d be here… well, I thought you might be…

I wasn’t sure if you still worked here or not.”

“I’m GREAT!” I say, which is an odd thing to be that enthusiastic about when the other person hasn’t actually asked how you are.

“Great,” says S quickly, before looking down at his hands, which are wound tightly around a pair of cocktails. “I’m still drinking too much. As you can see.”

I smile politely, and we look at each other, and then – when it becomes clear that neither one of us had the forethought to stock up on breezy small-talk before this encounter – I dynamite an escape route into the side of the conversation by saying: “Why don’t you go over there and drink those drinks.”
As patronising statements go, telling someone to go and drink the drinks they are holding is pretty unforgiveable. But S is clearly either too polite or too pissed to hold it against me, because a few days later I receive an email from him, out of the blue, saying how nice it had been to see me. “I hope your boyfriend wasn’t too upset that I came and spoke to you,” it says.

Boyfriend? This is a blindingly obvious attempt to fish for information. Does he really think I’d fall for that one? I hesitate a moment, before typing my response. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” it begins.