Churlish Acquaintance by Blanche Sunrise

Churlish Acquaintance by Blanche Sunrise

“What a pleasant surprise to see you. How long has it been? Gosh… A decade?” I said. The questions followed a long, convivial hug. An unexpected and charming splendour from meeting a long-lost contact at our mutual friend’s open house photography exhibition overwhelmed my senses.

“About that long, yes,” she said. “My other half and I had lunch with the photographer earlier when he mentioned you’d be coming today. Who do you keep in touch with nowadays?”

Long forgotten memories materialised gently to the foreground, pleased that she also knew the photographer whose show we both attended that day. We met within the musical scene, sharing similar music tastes and mutual friends. I remembered trying to keep in touch with her years ago before a rushed existence swayed us both. I kept more in contact with her partners throughout the years, rather that with her. Her long black hair turned midnight blue. I recalled the striking headpiece she wore during winter months, and all black garments that blended with the milieu. Her smiling face and hug conveyed a friendly realm of rekindled human touch.

I replied to her with a handful names of people I have been in contact with. She shook her head when I asked her if she knew all of them.

“Tell me, what happened to you three years ago? Our friend was anxious about you back then. Walk me through it, I want to know everything,” she said, flumping cross-legged in front of me on the emerald astro-turf, sipping white wine, monopolising my being and attention.

In front of the beige single-room gallery built with taste for this special event in the vast back garden, she flippantly demanded immediate answers. The padded two-seater sofa I perched on, where my partner parked me before wandering away to mingle with other viewers, became increasingly uncomfortable. The fashionable drink in my hand lost its appeal. A nearby group of visitors evaporated: I faced her alone.

The photography exhibition where we met opened earlier that week. It featured pictures of wildlife, close-ups of birds, flowers, fruits, and small animals. The artist set up the show in an untamed and arborescent environment. The front house grew more hidden and further distant. People gathered around the entry door of the exhibition, drinking and chatting with insouciance, catching up and enjoying the photo show bathed in the afternoon sunshine.

But not her. This being’s gall today left me speechless. The blue-haired Taurean crony wasn’t doing her astrological sign any favours. Her gloomy and ruthless glare aimed at me, her would-be friend. The comrade deliberately owned me. A self-proclaimed blatant attitude pretended to own the whole alternative scene. Therefore, she owned me. I automatically swivelled around to retrieve my three-wheeled walking aid, only to find it wasn’t next to me, having left it by the front door of the house when we arrived. Bright, warm afternoon, the fresh scent of the newly built exhibition space, the remote chatter of distant attendees, yet her gloomy presence in front of me. Not long ago, I would have left politely; now she had me trapped.

She slammed with nonchalance the trauma from three years ago onto the exhibition floor to be dissected that afternoon by an unconsidered, self-proclaimed friend out of her depth. The pleasant encounter metamorphosed into a purgatory by her crafty gossipy hands. It didn’t have to be this way. A staunch friend would have contacted me when it happened. A loyal friend would have shown their undivided support to me, and would have, out of gentle friendship, offered their presence in difficult times. As thoughts flooded in, the initial friendly attitude toward her vanished, leaving a deep and genuine disbelief for this gossip-seeking organism. She stepped over the fragile line with her big, black, heedless boots and stomped right into the core of my mishanter.

In a glacial flash, the Zen vibes of the afternoon intertwined with the reminiscence of those urgent hospital trips from back then, and still ongoing. The arduous and incessant struggle that followed on to revitalise my severely damaged gait. Post-accident, regaining full mobility remained a challenge; exercises have helped somewhat, a long path to recovery still lied ahead. I kept wondering, following the physio’s treatment plan, if my gait would ever be the same as it used to be.

“You really think I would say: ‘Yes, sure. Let me tell you about my ordeal.’ And coolly sip my drink and wave my glass around? Does this matter seem like casual small talk to you? I won’t do that. What I can tell you, it was a cataclysm.” I said.

“I know it was a cataclysm.”

A sad truth unveiled its ghastly face as soon as she uttered those words. My bile bubbled, reaching boiling point fast. The effervescent and overwhelming torrent of emotions choked my voice. Then the gates opened, and it came pouring out.

“Are you serious? Had you approached me today with genuine care and mindfulness about this?” I said, letting the verbal flood of furore cascade. “Had you contacted me out of a genuine sense of kinship back then? You hold no authentic friendship toward me, nor toward anyone.” I stared down at her. “Of course, you think now is the right time for this conversation, you feeble lout. I am not feeding your gossip-ridden half-wit little mushroom brain soaked in prosecco wine. You don’t own me, pal. You never have.”

Silence. She sat upright; her puzzled stare revealed the void bond she clanged with desperation. Her gawk questioned me for a brief moment, as if a beacon of regret peaked through her eyes. It unfolded then the impassive, clamorous personality denuded of any tangible meaning that inhabited her. I would never again wonder why she hadn’t been in my close circle of friends. All she had ever been, all she now would not remain: an acquaintance.

My partner emerged, walking toward us with the photographer, drinks in hand.

“I bid farewell to you,” I said to her, stood up and reached for my partner’s hand. “Continue living in your sphere and I’ll continue to live in mine.”

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Copyright Blanche Sunrise 2026

Image Source: Dey from Fictom.com