I have a very dear friend, single for a long time, who for the last three months has been in a relationship with a man who is witty, intelligent and passionate.
We're talking about passion with a capital P, both physically and emotionally. He even sends her e-mails from work along the lines of, "Only six hours until I can touch you again."
The last time I saw her, which was the last time I was in Perth, the two of them had just spent a particularly lovely weekend together.
That was four weeks ago. He hasn't spoken to her since.
He doesn't return her calls, nor has he replied to her e-mails.
He's not dead. She knows this because she rang his workplace. Apart from that, though, she doesn't have a clue what happened.
So, for the past four weeks she's been through various kinds of hell, starting with puzzlement, going through bleak disappointment and hurt, and ending where so many women end up: It's probably my fault.
It's not, of course. The guy's an arsehole. A gutless wonder who didn't have the balls to say, "I need a break" or "I'm having second thoughts" or whatever it was that was disturbing the universe that is him.
My friend recently entered the next stage of this awful affair: anger.
Now, I've seen her when she gets angry and feel that someone should probably say to this bloke, "Be afraid. Be very afraid."
It won't be me because I think he deserves whatever's coming. I'm now waiting with bated breath to see if it makes the evening news and if it involves his testicles and a mangle.
She's already talked about hiring a skywriter but I suspect it may go way beyond that.
