Love Is for Losers by Wibke Brueggemann (motivational books for men .TXT) 📕

rustling or clinking, and she finally looked at me. Dust particles danced in a ray of sunshine.

Emma: What was his name?

Me: Ilan. He was from Israel.

Emma: Isn’t it nice to know he wasn’t alone?

Me: I guess.

Emma (all aggressive): No. Not I guess, Phoebe.

Me:…

Emma: Admit it. It’s a nice thought.

Me: Are you telling me off?

Emma: Yes, because sometimes you don’t seem to realize what you’re saying.

Me: What am I saying?

Emma (shaking her head at me):…

Me: No, tell me.

Emma: I’m not having this conversation with you.

Me: What conversation?

Emma (exasperated now, back to throwing empty glass bottles into a bag for life): Any conversation, Phoebe.

Me: Fuck off, w—

Emma (leaving the room): Fucking off.

Me: I didn’t mean literally.

Emma (returning for a second): I don’t think you can literally fuck off. Fucking off literally doesn’t mean anything.

She went into the kitchen, where I heard her speaking to Kate and James, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and then I heard the front door opening and shutting, and I watched her through the living room window as she walked down the path to the road, and I was just like: WTF? Because I didn’t think I had offended her to the point of her actually leaving.

I felt panicky pins and needles all over my body, and so I got out my phone and called her, and she answered after two rings.

Emma: Yes?

Me: I’m sorry if I offended you.

Emma: I’m not offended.

Me: Then I’m sorry for upsetting you.

Emma: I’m not upset.

Me: You walked out.

Emma:…

Me:…

Emma: I’m usually more mature.

Me: Are you actually leaving?

Emma:…

Me: Because you forgot your backpack.

Emma (laughing a bit): No. I’m getting some air. And I’m getting snacks. Bye.

And then she hung up on me.

I sat down on Pat’s sofa and watched the dust slowly settle until the ray of sunshine carried nothing but sunshine.

Emma returned twenty minutes later and gave me a packet of ready salted crisps and a Dr Pepper.

I don’t know how she knew those are my favorite snacks, and it made me feel fizzy on the inside. That could have been the Dr Pepper, though.

For the rest of the day all I could think was that I wouldn’t have known what to get for Emma. She bought herself a bottle of Lucozade Original and a small packet of Minstrels. I’ve obviously now made a mental note.

James and I took one load of rubbish to the dump at lunchtime, which took, like, an hour, because apparently every single person in Wimbledon was clearing out their flat/house/garden/shed, too.

I asked James if he thought that everybody dies alone, but he just laughed and was like: “You’re so random, Phoebe. The things you come out with.”

At four we were literally starving, and so we ordered Domino’s, which we ate outside, sitting on the too-low garden wall. Emma took a selfie of her and Pat, which I think should win the picture of the year competition under the title: “South London: Where past and present shape the future.”

I sat down on the other side of Emma, and she smiled at me.

She took a big bite of her pizza, and I watched a string of cheese getting longer and longer, and when Emma pulled a really silly face, I helped and pulled the cheesy, gooey string with my finger until it finally snapped. Then we both laughed.

Me: I thought you were studying this weekend.

Emma: Real life tops studying on the pyramid of priorities.

Me: GCSEs are real life.

Emma: Are they?

Me: Ha ha.

Emma: What do you think you’ll remember when you’re eighty? Studying for GCSEs that Sunday, or helping Pat, and eating pizza, and being with friends?

Me: Fair enough.

Emma (chewing):…

Me: Are you worried, though? About GCSEs?

Emma (with her mouth full): Shitting it, actually.

And we really laughed.

Emma: I’m terrible at math. No, I lie, I’m okay at it, but I can’t remember formulas very well, so I’m doomed.

Me: I know it’s, like, last minute, but I can help you if you like, because I’m actually really good at math, and I can show you how the formulas are totally self-explanatory.

Emma: Show-off.

Me: No, I didn’t mean it like that, all I’m say—

Emma: Oh my God, Phoebe, I’m joking. Thank you. I may take you up on it.

Me: Okay.

When we left, Pat was like: “Thank you so much, I don’t know how I can ever repay you.” Kate was just like: “Och, don’t be ridiculous now. We’re all here for each other. But you can try to look after yourself a bit better.”

Pat: Sometimes I don’t bother because it’s just me, you know?

Kate: Well, we need you, Pat. Remember that.

PS: Kate and James are literally inseparable now. I think they even had a shower together.

PPS: Pat’s flat looked amazing when we left. All you could smell was bleach, and I hope she leaves the windows open overnight so she doesn’t die from toxic fumes.

Monday, May 7 #MuscleAcheMonday

I am so sore from all the house clearing, I can barely lift my arms.

It’s a bank holiday today, and so I studied for English, but I’d had enough at lunchtime, and so I went to the thrift shop. Pat was there, so she isn’t dead. Phew! She bought Kate an orchid from M&S to say thank you, and I now wonder if she used Emma’s voucher for it.

My stomach pain is driving me absolutely insane.

Maybe I’m allergic to dairy? There was a lot of cheese on that pizza yesterday.

I spoke to Mum this evening, and it was all about GCSEs.

She was like: “Make sure you get a really good night’s sleep beforehand, and prepare your clothes the night before as well, and make sure you take the earlier bus just in case.”

Whatever, Mum.

If she was really all that concerned, she’d be here. I lied to her about the amount of studying I’ve been doing, because I just can’t have that conversation. She was like: “And remember to breathe, Phoebe.” But I literally don’t know how to at the moment.

9:03 P.M.

I spent thirty-five minutes studying geography and the cost of a regular banana