I know I've got another story going ('Everything Changed', hint hint), but I sat down to do my Geography homework, started typing, and this came out.
Let's pretend that no one found out about Monica and Chandler's relationship in the seasons leading up to Chandler's proposal (so obviously, they never lived together). And, when Richard turned up, Monica – gasp! – picked him over Chandler. And then a few years passed...
Today Is The Day
"Today is the day," I say firmly. And I agree with myself – to a point. The trouble is – the day for what?
I know what I want today to be. I want, idiot that I am, today to be the day that I tell her that she made the wrong choice; that he's a loser, and he'll never be good enough for her. Unfortunately, there's only one flaw in my theory – if he isn't good enough for her, then I'm the most insignificant scum ever to walk this planet. Well, if scum could walk.
"If you really loved her," the more self-critical side of my brain tells me, "If you really wanted to be with her forever, then you would have told her. And you didn't. So, either you didn't love her—"
"—Of course I loved her! She was my reason for living," the other side of my mind (the hopelessly romantic one, incidentally) replies.
"Then you're a coward."
Well, fair play. I probably am a coward. Either that or I've got some sort of mental problem. I'm inclined to go for the latter, since it gives me an excuse and also explains the way that the two halves of my brain are having a heated debate about my (lack of a) love life.
Because of my idiocy, she's with him right now. In their house. It's sickening – not only do they have to get married and attempt to repopulate the whole of America, but they have to do it in a house. Okay, so I'm bitter. I have a right to be bitter. And it has nothing to do with the fact that they live in exactly the house that I always imagined the two of us living in (her and me – not me and him, obviously). Absolutely nothing. And I don't care that they have a cat.
And the fact that she chose him over me isn't why I've been trying to avoid her for the last two and a half years. Really, it isn't. Really.
I'm seeing her today, anyway. We all are. It's their youngest kid's first birthday, and apparently the contract we signed when we became The Friends had something about birthday parties not being optional in the small print. I'll be alright – two bottles of whiskey and I'm alright with being Uncle Chandler. Three bottles and I'm happy about it.
Am I excited?
No. Seeing the love of your life draped around her husband (who, incidentally, is not you), doesn't excite you much, surprisingly.
Am I terrified?
Yes. I am a terrible actor, and she knows it. She'll see straight past my 'I'm happy for you, really I am' face into the truth. It's scary stuff, believe you me.
"Come on, man!" shouts Joey through my closed bedroom door. "We gotta go see the Duck and the Chick!"
Joey and I gave our pets to the happy couple as a wedding present. It was a bit of a cop-out on all fronts – no one had told him that you were expected to give presents until the last minute, and I didn't trust myself to get them anything – I probably would have found myself giving the groom smallpox or something – so we decided to give the animals away – they were sick, and we were both tired of being kept up all night.
Apparently it was a mistake. Joey cried for three weeks afterwards. To be honest, I'm sort of hoping that they've killed them or something. Then I'll have an excuse to hate them publicly. Okay, not her. Him.
"If they're still alive," I mutter bitterly, trying to plant the seeds of doubt and hatred into his mind. God, I'm evil. Pure evil.
He nods, and turns to walk back to his room, before making a sudden double-take. "What?" he screeches, his eyes wide. "You promised me they'd live forever, man," he mumbles, his voice trembling.
Upsetting Joey is like kicking a dog. Actually, no. Upsetting Joey is like beheading a dog and then kicking it as it runs around headless, while laughing and aiming shots at it with a pistol. Only worse. "Don't worry, Joe," I find myself saying. "They're fine. Birds are immortal."
"You promise?" he asks, a tear in the corner of his eye.
"Sure." I pat him on the back, painfully aware that this is probably the closest I'll ever get to having a child of my own. It's a good thing she didn't pick me to have kids with – if I fail this miserably when I look after a thirty-year-old, what would I be like with an actual baby?
He grins. "So, man, you ready?"
"Do I look ready to you?" What with all the emotion, Joey appears not to have noticed my attire – boxer shorts and blue fluffy socks.
"Hey, nice socks," he says, sniggering. "What are you, a girl?"
"No, I-" I suddenly realise that I can't possibly tell him the truth – that they're the socks I've worn to bed for the last two and a bit years – that they're her socks, and sharing my bed with them is almost like sharing my bed with her. Because, first of all, he doesn't even know about our brief, doomed relationship. And second of all, it's intensely sad and creepy. "Yeah," I say, resignedly. "Yeah. Sure. I'm a girl."
"Well, I kinda always saw that one coming," says Joey, his brow slightly furled. "Seeing as you've got a girl's name and stuff."
"Chandler is not a girl's name! How many times?"
"Explain Muriel, then," he smirks.
"Oh, shut up," I mutter, retreating into my room, and slamming the door behind me. It smashes into my foot, sending shockwaves of pain up the back of my leg, and I groan. Even my dramatic exit sucks.
In a fuming temper, I wrench the first clothes I come to out of the wardrobe, not noticing until I'm about to leave the room that I'm wearing the red jumper I had on when he stole her from me. It's probably a coincidence, but I can't help but feel that it's significant. Because, when I go there and see them together, it's going to be like reliving that day over and over again. Great. Something to look forward to, then.
"Come on, Chandler!" Joey squeals from the next room. "We've gotta give the duck that hat you knitted! And the scarf for the chick!"
I'm not particularly thrilled about Monica finding out that I've taken up knitting, actually. "Uh... maybe we should just leave them for the next time, Joe," I say, pleadingly.
He looks stormy. "No."
Well, that's that, then. We're going to see Monica and Richard and give them a miniature scarf and hat for their farmyard animals. They're going to be so grateful – almost as grateful as they were when we presented them with the duck and the chick in the first place, in fact.
"No, no, you deserve it," I will be able to say, when they insist that I shouldn't have. And that way, I'll have something to laugh about when I'm sitting at home on my own this evening. And they say that my life is meaningless!
"Let's go!" says Joey, yanking me by my arm towards our apartment door.
We go.
Does he kiss your eyelids in the morning when you start to raise your head?
And does he sing to you incessantly from the space between your bed and wall?
Does he walk around all day at school with his feet inside your shoes; looking down every few steps to pretend he walks with you?
Oh, does he know that place below your neck that is your favourite to be touched?
And does he cry through broken sentences like "I love you far too much?"
Does he lay awake listening to your breath?
Worried that you smoke too many cigarettes?
Is he coughing now on a bathroom floor?
For every speck of tile there's a thousand more you won't ever see but most hold inside yourself eternally.
I'll write another chapter if anyone likes this one – so don't be shy to review!