Be A Man

A Short Tale of a 'Real' Man

Content Warning: Man being a man, light misogyny

I told her I loved her. She told me to fuck off. Happy birthday to me, I guess.

‘Mia, please,’ I whined, arm reaching for her as she walked past me.

‘No James, I told you this wasn’t serious. You said you wouldn’t get attached.’ She didn’t even face me as she kept walking.

‘You just gave me a cactus on my birthday, how is that not serious?’ My voice cracked on the word ‘birthday’, and I winced slightly as Mia paused and slowly turned to look at me. I stood; arm still outstretched and a mouth open.

‘My flatmate left it when she moved out.’ Mia crossed her arms. ‘I can’t take care of plants and I thought you might like it. It’s you that likes plants, right?’ Her stern expression softened slightly on the last sentence, a moment of hesitation flickering in her eyes.

What the fuck, I thought. It’s… me?

‘Sorry, what?’ I took a step toward Mia, then stopped. The arm I had held outstretched dropped to my side, my head cocking slightly. I stared at her for a moment, then blinked a couple times.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I told you this wasn’t serious, and I might’ve got a bit confused between the James’, one of you likes plants, the other dogs, and the third is, like, deathly allergic to them.’

‘Allergic to plants?’ I blinked again.

‘No, the dogs.’ She looked at me again. ‘Listen, I didn’t want to do this on your birthday, I just wanted to give you the plant and go, it’s your birthday and all yeah but I’m seeing Jake in like half a-‘

‘Jake? Sorry how many guys are yo- Actually, don’t answer that. It’s a boring name anyway so, whatever.’

‘You’re literally called James, James.’

‘Fuck off.’ I turned and started walking away, plant pot in one hand, the other clenching and flexing. That was the hand I had reached after her with. The girl I had fallen in love with. In LOVE! For god’s sake, what a pussy. Be a man!

‘See you around, I guess,’ Mia called after me. I lifted the empty hand, flicking my middle finger up behind me. I heard a scoff, and boots stomping away in the opposite direction. Her boots were ugly anyway.

I walked a couple blocks, gradually slowing from my angry pace to a slower saunter. It was late at night, but my phone was dead, and I didn’t wear a watch - because I’m not old - so I had no idea what the time was.

I came to a stop next to a large window. I turned my head and looked at my reflection for a moment. I was crying. Why was I crying? Men didn’t cry. Be a man. I refocused my eyes, peering past my reflection and into the room beyond. It was a café. It was the café. I’d taken Mia here on our first date, two months ago. She had just left a serious relationship, three years dating some nerd that worked in finance or tech or something. I hadn’t really listened. I spent the time staring at that waiter. He had looked... No.

‘Happy birthday mate, happy fucking birthday.’ I grit my teeth, turned around and started to walk across the road slowly. ‘Happy fucking birthday,’ I kept muttering under my breath. Faster and faster, I kept repeating it. Each step I took, I was breathing heavier, muttering faster, gritting harder.

‘Happy,’ I stopped, fury rising inside me, an eruption of anger in my stomach.

‘Fucking,’ I spun.

‘Birthday!’ I shouted, my arm with the plant pot flew out, the small prickly green thing catapulting across the road. The window exploded. An alarm started blaring. Lights came on above the café, the owners or tenants above the flat clearly waking up from the noise. Curtains shifted behind glass, and I could see pairs of eyes staring blearily at me.

I looked down at my hand, now empty.

‘Fuck,’ I said, looking back up at the shattered window. I could hear voices from the café now, and lights started to come on in there too. I looked left, looked right, and ran.

I always did this. I always ran. First, some bitch would break my heart. Then I’d get angry. Then I’d run. Every time. Man up. Be a man! For once, in your life!

I stopped running, took a breath and turned around. A flash of lights, a blare of sirens, the screeching of tires on tarmac.

Be a man.

Author’s Note:

I wrote this a while ago, and I just came across it again. I wanted to give a kind of incel/closetted/internalised homophobe vibe. Not sure if I managed, but I might expand on it at some point.

This is technically the first in a collection I started called Modern Love Stories. It’s somewhat disjointed from the other short stories here, which I am hoping to share soon, but it still shares the same major themes of love and hate in our times. Hope you hate James, that’s how he’s written!

You can read some of my essays here.

You can read some of my short fiction here.

If you would like to buy me a coffee, you can do that here.

Until the next short story <3