Yes, by early February I have convinced myself: there is no baby. No. That’s why I haven’t heard from her again. That Abigail chick was just trying to make me suffer.

You see, when I finally climbed out of her bed that night of 8 November, she smiled at me over the embroidered duvet cover. She fluttered her eyelashes like some drama-queen.

She said, “Aren’t we perfect together, Lexie? We’re made for each other, I reckon. Promise me you’ll phone me tomorrow, OK? I’ll be waiting for your call.”

I nodded as I dragged on my jeans. But I was already feeling disgusted with myself. And her, I suppose.

“Promise? Promise?” She tried to make her stereo-system voice sound like a little girl’s.

But of course I never did call her. Hell, I never wanted to think about her again. I wanted to wipe that night of 8 November from my memory-bank.

So, I reckon, she got her revenge. Dang, she got her revenge. These past weeks have been torture for me.

But it’s OK now. My mind has cleared. I can stop thinking about terrifying stuff like maintenance. I can start concentrating on my course work.

Such a relief!

And then – come 13 February – she phones again. This time I recognise her voice instantly.

“You naughty boy, Lexie-Lex! Why haven’t you called? Why haven’t you come to visit? I’m missing you so much. But never mind. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. So I bet you are planning something special for me. Maybe a nice meal at a nice restaurant? I can’t wait, my darling.”

I swear I am seeing red. And it’s not red hearts nor red roses. It is a tsunami of anger and hate.

I’m thinking: wasn’t there something called The Valentine’s Day Massacre? Some Mafia shoot-up in Chicago or somewhere, with dead bodies bleeding all over some restaurant? Well, that’s the only thing I’d like to give her: a Valentine’s Day Massacre. I’d like to rip her apart for all the stress and trauma she’s put me through with her lie.

And that’s what I yell at her over the phone. All of the above. I end with, “I hate you! Do you have any idea how much I hate you?”

But she doesn’t seem bothered. She says with a hyena-laugh, “Come on, my Lekker-Lexie. That’s no way to talk to your baby-mama, sweetheart.”

I yell some more. “There’s no baby. You aren’t pregnant, you cow! Don’t you ever phone me again, you hear. I never, never, never want to hear that foghorn voice of yours again, you bitch.”

But it seems Abigail has already disconnected. And I am left feeling ashamed. Disgusted with myself. Never before have I spoken to any female this way! Not even to my two sisters – who are always driving me up the wall with their teasing and nonsense.

Do you see what I’m saying, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury? This girl is turning me into a monster that I don’t recognise.

***

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