Rusty called round last night close to tears and within five minutes I understood why he wanted no water in his whisky; he was copiously diluting it with tears.
"What's up? Rusty". I asked. He told me the following tale.
"I've met a woman, her name is Estella, she is an opera singer, she is my love, my sun and moon, my compass, my mettle detector, I was born for her and she for me and now I have lost her.
My friends warned me about her. Told me that she was hard as nails, a bitch, a diva like no other but I ignored them for she was none of those things to me. The only problem I had was that she would not let me hear her sing, when I asked her she flatly refused and asked me not to press her on the matter. I have to admit that I became jealous of all the other people who were able to hear her sing; such was the beauty of her voice that all men would forgive her divaish behaviour in order to hear her golden voice. She would not sing for me!
Until last night, fired with jealousy I demanded she sing for me. I threatened to leave her if she would not sing.
She, tears streaming down her cheeks, sang for me. There are no words to describe the beauty of her voice, I must leave it at that!
When she had finished I dried my eyes and said: "That was beautiful. Why could you not sing to me before? What was the problem?"
She replied: "Right you arsehole, you have heard me sing, you are no different from the others now. Fuck off!"
She will not speak to me or see me.
Rusty and I spent the rest of the night weeping into whisky listening to the Diva on the CD player. Bitch!