A few days ago, I had lunch with a friend.

It’s an annual tradition to celebrate what we call New Beginnings, and it usually plays out the same way. I use the time to brag about my amazing wife and her cooking, knowing full well that he’s a serious foodie. Then I go on about how much time we spend together, all that quality togetherness.

In return, I wait for him to playfully criticise his wife, pointing out her many “flaws”, which he always seems to have an impressive catalogue of.

Truthfully, I’ve met her. She’s lovely.

But some people enjoy a good venting session. Or a performance of one. I call it emotional aerobics.

This time, though, something was different. I could tell something was bothering him.

I knew I shouldn’t pry. In the past, his negativity had triggered my own issues badly enough to land me in a clinic. But curiosity is a sneaky little creature, and I gently poked it with a stick.

Now, this guy had already talked me into an expensive lunch — something he’s exceptionally good at. Everyone’s warned me about it. I do have a small trick for clawing some money back, but that’s another story.

So I paid for lunch.

Then I paid in listening.

He leaned in and quietly said that a certain “friend” of ours makes him deeply uncomfortable.

I knew exactly who he meant.

I could relate.

He asked if it was normal for people to say and do the things this “friend” does. He mentioned the verbal abuse. The belittling. The strange little power games.

I smirked and shrugged it off as if it were nothing, even though I shared every one of his concerns.

What makes it harder for him, I think, is religion. In his family, he’s the designated “priest”. The moral compass. The one who goes to church on Fridays and behaves.

Back when I still visited pubs, I’d get tipsy and philosophically generous.

I could see he wanted my verdict.

So I said:

“People like that thrive in this new world.”

By people, I meant our strange little “friend”.

I watched it land. That flicker of understanding.

We ate well after that. I had another beer. He stuck to milkshakes and Coke.

When the waitress brought the bill — old school, I know — he’d conveniently left his wallet at home.

Wouldn’t be the first time. Wink.

We all have friends like that.

I paid. Tipped too. Which he didn’t appreciate.

He muttered that he could’ve used the money for his holiday.

That was part of my plan.

It felt like a small victory.

I walked him to his car and nearly paid for his parking too. But suddenly — miraculously — his wallet appeared from the very home he’d left it in.

He paid for his ticket.

Funny how wallets do that.

We shook hands. Then he pulled me into a warm, tight, slightly awkward hug. The kind that suggests a speech is loading.

I assumed he was about to confess about the wallet. Or ask me to cover his parking. He’d been eyeing my wallet all through lunch.

Instead, he said:

“Dude… you have no idea how much your words meant to me.”

I frowned. Genuinely confused. Patted his back.

The car door slammed.

“Say hi to your wife and kids for me!” I called, grinning.

He rolled up his window and sped off, tyres screeching, clearly annoyed.

I understood why.

Some people enjoy feeling sorry for themselves.

And I’d taken away the reason.

Weeks passed. No message. No money.

January is expensive. I knew the odds.

Then my wife mentioned a coworker who perfectly matched the description of our peculiar friend.

I repeated my experiment.

“People like her thrive in this new world.”

She frowned slightly — which, as always, only made her more beautiful. High hairline. Deep blue eyes. High cheekbones. That little nose crinkle that should come with a health warning.

I briefly considered abandoning the conversation entirely for athletic reasons.

Then the understanding arrived.

Her face softened.

“Wow… that’s so true,” she said.

I almost mourned the lost expression.

I asked, “What’s so special about those words?”

She looked at me as though I were being deliberately slow.

I wasn’t.

I was fishing.

I gave her my best puppy-dog eyes. The please, I’m innocent, adopt me immediately look.

It worked.

She took my hand and dragged me to the place where stories politely stop being written… and imaginations are expected to behave themselves.

And so, dear reader, this is where mine ends.

For now.

I have more to say.

Stay tuned.

And enjoy your new world, friend.