The night. He.
I hear her laughing with a friend, probably revelling in her own jokes, for it sounds obvious she isn’t sober. Though tellingly above the limit, she doesn’t look bad: older, I think, tall, hazel eyes with their green more pronounced thanks to the left-over mascara smeared around them. I can picture her lips looking more inviting at the start of the night – still neatly coated in luscious red – of which only the smudges hilariously remain. She has an accent – not too pronounced, a squirt of exoticism. A simple dress, ankle-high boots – did she dress in the 90s?
She staggers up to me, all smiles and audacity (or is it vulgarity? It’s a grey area), and slurs the abrupt “You’re cute”. Fucking bingo – this is to be the seizure of my opportunity. I am an actor. A drama student at the moment, if we’re doing meticulous labels, but my calling is bigger than its ranking box. Which I will prove by finally itching the method scratch. What would it feel like to attempt a new identity, to wear a name that is not mine, to cast myself in a part out of my own script? Can I conceal the thrill of seeing how far I can get, seeing WHAT I can get? “Bond, James Bond” – I introduce myself to her. Ok, I don’t, obviously, but the thought is somewhat amusing. As is she, unflinching in her demand that I take down her number. The night is young, and she keeps on giving.
Why wait then? I feel ready for professional advancement, albeit self-imposed. So I dial her straight away, before she’s had the chance to roll her tipsy ass – with my master plan – away from me. Like I said, the seizure of opportunity is vital. We take a walk along the autumnal canal – please don’t ever tell me I didn’t bother making it romantic – breaking every few steps to allow for our mouths’ hunger for each other. I did have to make a more strategic stop right underneath the bridge, to avoid the grainy lights of misty streets, to wrap us in the decency of darkness. Man, she is intense – and drunk – grabbing hold of my dick like that. Or is it me that’s grabbing her by hers? Metaphorically speaking.
The experiment is not entirely innocent, I see that. Foretellingly, it’s for the greater good. Possibly, at the minor detriment of someone’s trust but there are more unfair things enveloping the world. Besides, the whole point is to keep myself unexposed – forever. And if discovered, I’ll have done a poor job, and I’m not sure if that’s not worse than someone else’s slight emotional ordeal. I am a professional actor, this is to be my job.
The morning after. She.
What WAS last night? Why the shit was I suddenly left at the table by myself? Why am I always left at a table by myself? I don’t choose to be an abandoned loner. I’ve rude bastards for friends.
I wish somebody would cancel this hangover though, I feel my eyeballs dissolving.
I must work my hardest on keeping them intact… for I sure would love to lay them on that man again. And if now I stay in bed, and pretend to sleep, I can allow the visual to linger: very tall, leaning against a red-brick fence, texting frantically, his features would have been moonlit had it not been for the ruffled duvet of spotlight provided by street illumination – a visual that was grainy, mysterious, cold, dark, isolating, almost romantic and inexplicably irresistible. As irresistible as he himself.
I must have looked decent if he dialled me straight away. It’s the dress: I automatically project confidence when I flex anything 90s – unarguably the best era of fashion. Who am I kidding: confidence my ass. It was the liquor toxins fancy-dressed as self-esteem. Will he wake up and think I was vulgar, coming up to him like that? What WILL he think in the new day, how will he remember me, will he still be interested? Was he interested in the first place – I did invade his personal space without either permission or a chance for an escape. Oh, I wonder what he’s like – well that’s a lie, I don’t wonder for I already know what he is like – strong, funny, talented, kind, honest, completely the opposite of all the vile narcissists of my past.
I better get up and drink some healing liquids, this hangover is making me age a bunch, and who wants to see THAT.
Charlie. That’s right. Charlie was his name, if indeed I succeeded in remembering. Bit of a plain name, which I fear will transform into dangerous, for I am already an emotion away from “owned”, losing myself in the torrent of flashbacks: his breathing, his eyes, his heart beat. Like a Sam Taylor to his Aaron, a pre-jet Angelina to his Brad, a Beyonce to his Jay. Nope, that last one is blasphemy, apologies to my queen and saviour.
What time is it anyway? Is it text-from-Charlie o’clock? That joke is as lame as my hangover. Right. I am going to rise up, fight this urge to puke if I can and face the day full of dreadful and unwelcome sunshine. Good morning, world!