My friend Harold came round the shop the other day. He looked awful. I hadn’t seen him in weeks, which is odd. The man’s absolutely addicted to Cadbury’s.
“Harold,” I said, “Where’ve you been?”
“Went for a walk.” He answered alright, but he was staring off all funny, like the bag of crisps was terribly intriguing to him.
“For three weeks?” I said.
“I found…” He stopped. Those stupid, intriguing crisps, I reckoned.
“Harold, what’d ya find, man?”
He looked up at me, “The end.” He said it plain, like it should mean something.
“End of what?”
“Not of what. The end. You know…”
“Which end? Where the sidewalk ends?”
“The deep one.”
“Deep one what?”
“The deep end,” he said all dreamy, eyes wandering back toward the crisps.
“Harold,” I said, “What are you going on about?”
“The deep end,” he said, again staring at those crisps, then finally back at me, “Mack, I think I went off it.”
“Quit pulling my leg.”
He just shrugged and turned, “Bye Mack. Gotta go back.”
I shouldn’t have followed.