It Was All A Joke

It was all a joke, really. Not to me, but for him? Definitely. He played me like a jester does with his puppets, toying with emotions and putting on a show. I look back at some of the things he said, and feel like laughing in disbelief.

Well, he always knew how to make me laugh; always was the comedian.

He would work the room at every party, and he’d always end up standing on a chair, sharing some yarn, while people stared up at him, smiles in their eyes and on their faces. I think being laughed at made him feel loved. He was always searching for more of people’s love.

The jokes would be built up - they had to start small. It was usually something to do with tennis players, or the pope, or a movie star. I’ll buy you a drink.

I thought he was the fool in the relationship. I was quiet and studious, and he was loud and adored by all. He was the funny one and I was the one who laughed at his jokes. Though I guess it turns out I was the fool. I was hoodwinked and tricked and duped and conned and taken in and made to fall in love.

The next step would be to construct the joke, brick by brick, like a tradesman does, building a house. It would be there to lull you into a false sense of security, to enthral the audience further into the story. There wouldn’t be much humour yet, just small details like what the character did that day or what their favourite pastimes were. He enjoys arty, impossible books, while she likes reading essays. We’re a couple, love.

I suppose he only saw whatever we had as comic relief, something he could have fun with before moving onto bigger and better things. Though my parents always taught me it was the small things that count, and boy did we have a lot of small things. I’d never use his toothpaste, and he’d never ruin my alphabetised CDs. We’d go on walks every Saturday morning to cafes, and drink the most sophisticated tea we could afford. While we sat, he would impersonate the people around us, watching me laugh with his black eyes.

Next slice of the joke routine would be the surprise; something you weren’t expecting. It was the conflict before the resolution. A table would get dropped out the window, or the wrong person would answer the door, or there would be a misunderstanding between lovers. It was nothing, I swear.

It was all very surreal, rather like watching a movie; as if it was just another romantic comedy we’d rented from the video store. There was the jacket by the door, and then noises in the kitchen. Then him and her were springing guiltily apart, mouths the perfect images of shock and sin.

The closing stage would be the phrase that drew the laughs, and left people banging their fists on the table, raucous guffaws echoing.

Don’t leave me. I love you.

What a great punch line.