Mr Cambridge

When I started university the head of department said to us that we will enjoy our time and we may even meet our future partners there. He was wrong on both counts. I hated Biochemistry and the pompous middle class kids who were very cliche. They were kind of closet racists that would post online pictures of them hugging third world deprived kids because Angelina made poor brown kids fashionable. The stream of brown kids for their contrived online presence came from those schemes that make you pay a fortune to go and build schools for. I imagine having one of these twits in the construction site would be rather counter productive. Regardless, they were of course quick to jump on the bandwagon and help the impecunious, just because that’s what they were about.

Among the hay I found a needle, Mr Cambridge, who had defected from the closet racist gang. He emerged as an ally in his Oxford shoes and he was certainly an honourable gentleman. He wore Ede and Ravenscroft suits (see a picture of a jacket below), which were undeniably beyond his years but nevertheless fitted well. He was Jefferson and he wanted me to be Sally Hemmings. We spent a lot of time together and we argued like married couples do. However, I didn’t see Mr Cambridge like that. It crossed my mind once but nothing ever came of it. We were just not supposed to be (just like Mr Best). Additionally, I was already in a relationship, Saudi and Cambridge already hated each other. It was just best to leave Cambridge behind. Over time, Cambridge and I grew apart as he worked internationally. 
Many years after graduation, Cambridge and I found ourselves in London. He had a high flying recruitment role and he was doing well. We met, dined and wined. He did his usual thing of drinking the entire bar dry. He loved his alcohol and nothing had changed since university. He insisted on more alcohol on our way out, so we got a some drinks at a bar nearby. He was the Saharan desert and his thirst for alcohol kept giving. We got a bottle of wine for him on the way to mine. In his tipsy state he was furious at the £10 bottle of wine and the lack of fine wines to chose from in an office license. Nevertheless, the price tag didn’t stop him from drinking the entire bottle. 
He was rather drunk now. He was blabbering on and on. It’s unattractive to watch a man in such a state. I always imagined a man to be in a condition that enables him to take care of the ladies by his side. He starts yelling at me now: ‘do you remember that talk at the start of the first semester? I always thought that would be us. I thought we would get married’. We were simliar but he had habits that I could never overlook. He didn’t care about his health, he drank far too much and he could not compromise. For simplicity I focused on one issue, the alcohol. He shouts ‘why do you care about your partner’s drinking habits. It doesn’t effect you.’ He was naive and wrong. I was that way inclined once too, so I could empathise. Over time, I have realised I am just about dealing with my own issues (mainly consisting of heartbreak from designer shoes that have become out of stock) let alone someone else’s awful habits. Some people are great and can deal with other’s issues; I am just not that great. In fact, I never want to be great. 
Cambridge looks like infant in a nursery, he looks absent but yet participating in the world. The irony is that his mind is a blue sky on most days: he is a sharp cookie. I go ahead and make tea. On my return I find him passed out. I look at him sleeping very unattractively. I loved Mr Cambridge so much, but my love would lose it’s much-ness if I pushed our relationship to anything else. I just wished him the absolute best in life and I knew the best wasn’t me.

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