Heartbreak at the wet wooden counter
By Chupa Mwingi
When I first met the voluptuous Sandra and the equally big-bodied Joe at the beginning of this year, the outgoing couple looked a match made in heaven; perfectly tailor-made for each other. Both tall, shared interests including same whisky brand, and most importantly, their chemistry. Sandra loved Joe dearly. Joe worshipped Sandra. Everybody at Swallows easily concluded the relationship would end at the altar. Joe looked like a young moneyed executive. He loved the good life, part of which was smoking expensive cigars and he never touched anything less than 18 years single malt whiskey.
Sandra was too infatuated with Joe to the extent of being hopelessly possessive. One weekend, the club was teaming with uni girls celebrating a birthday party. Joe, a typical city casanova with a roving eye, spent the night visiting the washroom hoping to catch an eye of one of the bevies. But Sandra, knowing her man too well, beat him in his game, as she spent the night camped at the entrance to men’s washroom every time Joe excused himself for the loo. And that’s how the lustful Joe ended with zero new numbers in a night of plenty.
But this kind of relationship is not known to blossom to anything meaningful. I have seen all type of dates in my many years as a barman, that I can tell the ones which will break up after a couple of bar-drinking escapades, with disastrous effects. This Joe-Sandra’s had all the ingredients of trouble.
And so, last week, my fears were confirmed when Sandra arrived at Swallows an hour earlier than usual. She never came here alone. She was seething from something she explained to one of her girlfriends over the phone. “The dog was at it again!” she yelled. “I read his text messages last night and there is a b* called Samantha. He must have been bedding her because she said he is good at the game,” she explained, her raised voice almost bringing the roof down.
An hour later, Joe arrived at the club arms stretched. He was expecting the usual hug. “Hi darling, how was your day?” He hardly had finished uttering the last word before the volcano that was Sandra erupted. “Disappear from my sight! Do I look like Samantha? It’s over, never call me again!”
And just like that, Joe’s fairytale with Sandra came to a dramatic finale right at the wet wooden counter… I stared in disbelief, but somehow happy. I hated Joe!
