“Get up, I have to be there at 9!” I was dressed and ready for the appointment he was supposed to be walking me to. His get up and go exceptionally low as he stayed there, corpse like and shook at 8:35.
There were many reasons we weren’t working out, and this was one of them. We had already had 14 wars and three social media audits over his antics with other women this week, and his complete lack of interest in my punctuality wasn’t earning him any brownie points.
Still unmoved, I tugged at the duvet before realising I didn’t want to sweat in this material. Sweaty Betty was not the look I was going for, and I didn’t think it would compliment the steam now coming out of my ears.
Confirming the truth I hadn’t wanted to face, I grabbed his phone and made a dart for the door, hoping it may spark some movement. Spark was right, he went from three weeks dead to roadrunner after sitting on a firework! I think people would have paid good money to see a couple of incompatible idiots wrestling over a Samsung at 8:40 in the morning.
I will never know for certain what was on that phone, and to be honest, I never want to, but I think his name under his ex-girlfriend’s entire Insta feed may have been a slight giveaway…