“Zackly,” I said, gloomily.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” said P, “for – ooh – about two years now...”
“Yeah?”
“Where did that come from?”
“Where did what?” I started fiddling with my neck as though there was some mark there that I hadn’t washed off for two years.
“Zackly.”
I waited. There was nothing more forthcoming...
...
“Oh! That!”
“Yes, dude, that!”
“Oh. Right.”
“Well?”
“Um, you’re going to hate this...”
“Why...?” P’s voice was ominous.
“Coz it’s going to turn out that something you like is tainted by something you hate.” Mine was getting slower and quieter.
“Meaning...?”
“Er.”
“Is this leet speak?”
“No! No, no, no, no way.”
P looked at me.
“Kinda.”
“What kinda kinda?”
“In that it was something I did for phonetic fun on a chat program and people liked it and then started using it on blog comments, and before you know it...” Suddenly my voice was accelerating and increasing in pitch.
“J...!”
“Not my fault, really...”
“You’ve been letting me use this piece of... net jargon!” The words were spat with a disdain I’ve rarely witnessed outside llama enclosures.
“It’s not net jargon! Really!”
“But kinda.”
“Yeah, kinda.” I tried a conciliatory grin. It was probably a lot more fixed and nervous than I’d’ve liked, ideally, but you work with what you’ve got, right? “But original net jargon. Yanno, creative.” I cringed. Luckily, I don’t think P knows about yanno...
P gave me a patented narrow look. “Luckily, you have a problem I want to help with. But we’ll discuss this later, oh yes.”
Not the time to tell my friend that I’ve always thought that look somewhat hircine...
“Dude, there’s only so much more you can do for me unless you know where I was last night and who Sandra is and, more to the point, you have a,” I hastily lowered my suddenly-large voice, “a time machine that’s going to take me back and hoist me by the back of my expensive blue shirt out of that bar or whatever and kick my arse all the way back home. “I’d settle,” I went on, grimly, “for a hypnotic technique that will summon my memory back from the grave and incidentally give me a superb explanation or excuse or something for my boyfriend, who is probably returning on Monday, but maybe tomorrow.”
P blinked. There was a clenching of teeth and drawing back of lips. “Er, how about a coffee?”
“That’ll help.”
As P negotiated the pushchair- and goth waitress-strewn path to caffeine I sank down onto the table, forehead then cheek coming to a rest on the fake wood surface. “Here’s a great idea,” I murmured to myself. “Why don’t you shout at your closest friend and waste time feeling sorry for yourself in this pointless and dramatic fashion? Brilliant, Watson.”
“Have you finished with the cups?”
I sat up and felt crumbs of bruschetta cascade off my forehead. I had a horrible feeling that more were adhering to it, but couldn’t bring myself to brush them off just yet. I was looking into the over-made-up eyes of the goth waitress. Another vixen helplessly falling for my ineluctable charm.
“Er, yeah. Er...”
“Cheers.” She clomped off with them.
Just brilliant.