Brighton Pride was horrible before I even got on the train. A friend of Darian's tottered over - the very definition of a Dirty Old Disco Mary (even his transparent crop trop was wrinkled).
"I know everyone!" he cackled, an arm round my shoulders, his hand sneaking towards Darian's pants.
"Even Adam?" I asked, naming my crap twink ex.
"Canadian Adam? Yes. He was a naked waiter at my party last week. Served all the guests on his knees. Heh heh heh."
Oh. There's something uniquely upsetting about discovering your ex is now some old codger's cocksucking canape wielder.
I guess it hurts because it suggests that, if he can be hired as an amuse bouche, he never was quite who I thought he was. And that he was sleeping with me for money as well. And no one likes to be proved an old fool. Especially not at thirty. By a man nearly twice my age.
The pippin came when the man whipped out his phone. "I've got a picture of him from his interview. Would you like to see it?"
No. No. Oh god no. Please no. Oh. All right then:
After that, I was in an odd mood all day. If you are going to have a small meltdown, I suggest you don't do it wandering around a big gay field with a man who appears to have either had, or be desired by, most of the good-looking men there. And who refuses to go on the helter skelter. Boringly, I don't do drugs, but yesterday I was terribly, terribly tempted.
Instead, I went home early, trying to cry quietly on a train packed with disco damaged muscle marys.