I hadn’t seen or heard from my old friend for almost two years. If he hadn’t called asking to meet me, this absence of contact would probably have doubled before I even had a chance to notice.

We were close friends at college, but it was one of those friendships which slowly fragments and fades away due to the inevitability of adulthood and all the time-hungry chores and responsibilities it carries with it: family, career, washing up, shopping, worrying about bills, watering the plants, burying grandparents and aunties and uncles, installing roof insulation, planning holidays, writing Christmas cards, mending a fence – those sorts of things.

I may not have even agreed to meet my old friend if it wasn’t for his troubled tone when he phoned. We don’t even live in the same town any more, but I figured he must have been passing through. The call was brief and we arranged to meet at 2pm at a quiet local bar we both knew of.

After feeding the cat and leaving the house, I strolled over to the bar, enjoying the sun beating down on my shoulders.

The pub was as quiet as I remembered it to be – gloomy, minimal lighting, just a few occupied booths, but relatively pleasant and welcoming all the same. I approached the bar and ordered half a lager in anticipation of my old friend’s arrival. Sitting in the booth I had chosen in the corner of the room, fifteen minutes passed. Not wanting to buy another drink until my old friend arrived, I passed the time by swilling around the remaining liquid in my glass, while looking at the world go by out of the window beside me.

My mind must have begun to wander, as a hand on my shoulder startled me suddenly. Looking up, my old friend was standing there, a slight smile on his face joined with a solemn, almost pained frown, which matched the voice I heard on the phone just over two hours previously. My old friend offered me a drink to which I obliged and he shuffled over to the bar with a lot less enthusiasm than I remembered being accustomed to seeing him move with. There was definitely a sadness filling the bones of my old friend, and finding out why is what I imagined I was invited here to do.

Sat across from each other in our private booth, beers in hand and a spray of sun shining through the window beside us, we spoke for a while about the normal things two men speak about when they are verging on middle age and haven’t seen each other for a couple of years. Family, career, installing roof insulation, mending fences – that sort of thing. All the while, I knew there was something specific he wanted to say to me. We finished our drinks and I offered to get a second round.

When I returned and sat down, my old-friend turned from his gaze out of the window and looked me square in the eyes with a troubled expression.

“You must be wondering why I called to ask you out for a beer?”

His voice now held a slight quiver as he spoke.

“Not especially. Time just seems to go by so quickly these days. I hadn’t even realised how long it had been. I mean, no offence, it’s great to meet up and all.”

He now held his freshly perspiring beer firmly in both hands as if he were going to slip under the table and into a black hole if he let go.

“No, no offence taken. I know what it’s like. I’m actually in town because a friend of mine has passed away.”

He paused, I waited.

“You don’t know him yourself. In fact, I didn’t even know him that well either – not well enough, anyway”.

“Oh, I am sorry”, I managed, while wondering why out of all of the people this semi-distant friend of mine could choose to console himself with after a death, he would choose me.

“How did he die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

With this question my old friend shuffled uncomfortably for a moment.

“He committed suicide actually.”

Sharing these grave words seemed to instantly release a barrel-load of tension from his body. He proceeded to explain the unfortunate demise of a friend he didn’t know too well and I didn’t know at all.

“I didn’t actually know how he died until I was at the funeral and started chatting to a few faces I recognised. It’s still only just sinking in now really. I suppose it will take longer than a couple of hours, wont it?”

Not sure whether this was a question, I just offered what I hoped was a comforting smile and waited for my old friend to continue.

“As far as I was aware, he was always quite a happy man, and even recently he seemed perfectly fine every time I saw him, which was at least twice a month. I suppose some people just bury their feelings away though.

He shifted and settled more comfortably in his seat.

“Well, anyway, a normal guy with a normal life, but I guess things just got a little too much for him. He split from his wife a few years ago, but he was as over that as much as he could be. I know they split on relatively good terms and I’m pretty sure they still talked. I think he even went over for dinner now and again. He told me recently that she doesn’t have a steady partner, so they wouldn’t have been completely uncomfortable meetings.”

He paused for a moment, as if waiting for the words he had just spoken to come back around the room and sink into his own conscience.

“Obviously seeing someone a couple of times a month isn’t enough to determine whether they’re truly happy, or at least okay even. But everyone I spoke with after his death, and even friends and family I spoke with today at the funeral agreed they didn’t see it coming. If he hadn’t of left a suicide note, no-one would probably have worked out why he decided to end it all of a sudden. You know, on account of him being such a normal guy and all.”

Dropping his eyes to his glass, my old friend continued with a more hushed tone.

“Apparently, his neighbour grew concerned when he wasn’t responding to knocks on the door. This neighbour looked through the window and just saw a pair of legs hanging from the ceiling. Police soon came round and battered down the door. Sure enough, they found him hanging from a beam in his kitchen, and a suicide note on the table next to him. In fact, there were many different notes, apparently, but not all of them contained a suicidal farewell. Even the actual suicide note wasn’t your average, clear-cut suicide note, apparently. No goodbye cruel world or anything like that. Most of these letters were crumpled up and had calculations and bill amounts on them – as far as I’ve been told. Scores of them, containing workings out of money spent over the years. A great big pile. But there was this one note on top of them all. It was written with care and folded neatly in half. It was placed on top of all the others. It was titled Money I Have Spent on Uneaten Pineapple Fritters in the Past Two Years.

My old friend frowned hard, matching the strain of understanding I didn’t know I now painted my face.

“Now, I knew this guy pretty well and was aware he was organised. But I didn’t realise how organised. And on top of that I didn’t realise he had what seems to have been a strange obsession with pineapple fritters. The note detailed a hefty sum spent on these fritters which had not been eaten over this two year period. And at the bottom it simply read: What a waste. Think of all the money I could have saved if I hadn’t spent it all on fritters I didn’t even eat. I could have made a difference.”

My old friend sat in silence for a moment. He took a deep breath and looked up at me while shaking his head slightly. He began to muse further on his sort-of-friend’s peculiar demise.

“I just don’t understand it. I just wouldn’t have thought pineapple fritters would have such a bearing on someone’s decision to continue living or not.”

I pondered on this for a moment, not really knowing what to say. Eventually, the silence grew a little uncomfortable and my voice was forced.

“Who truly knows how another person is feeling and how anything may affect them? Even if it is just a feeling as seemingly inconsequential as having frustration over uneaten pineapple fritters.”

This comment seemed to comfort my friend somewhat. He smiled at me warmly. We sat in silence for a moment, toying with our own thoughts on the matter. We both took a big gulp of our beers.