Josh is a good friend of mine, only I’m probably not a good friend to him. But it could be worse.
We were flatmates at Uni. Back when we thought the world was all about us and we felt immortal. He was so gorgeous he always had to push back dates. Tired of all these women trying to hit on him. Only years later he realised he didn’t like women at all.
This one time we had an argument. Josh was in the kitchen, eating is kale and couscous salad, when kale was not even a thing. We argued. Screaming in each other faces. His squeaky voice getting louder, getting under my skin. His ring-beaded hand slamming on the table with spit and curses spurting from his mouth. So I did was what any passionate Uni student with boiling blood in his veins would do. I ripped the TV off the wall and held it tight in my hands ready to throw it at him.
This was when TVs had this giant cathodic tube behind and weighted more than a desk. TV on my hands and Josh’s looking like a cat stranded on a motorway. Turning bedsheet white, he shouted, “You’re off your nut.” And even for my terrible young temper, that was too much. I didn’t throw him the TV and he sprinted out of the kitchen, saying, “You’re such a mental case, dude.”
We’ve been best friends ever since.