Let's start with the cliché, yes I was drunk. Stupid drunk. So what? -That's what Saturday nights are for. Okay, maybe it was a Thursday, but it was Summer, almost. We were at a party near the Annex, there was a band, and a basement and a garden. I was drinking spiced rum and had a flask full of that Cannonball whiskey shooter stuff. That stuff was tasty, you can't get it here. I quite liked the bottle too. Anyway, it was liquid blackout, and I shouldn't have drank so much. But that has absolutely nothing to do with what happened, and I am not going to apologise for being drunk at a party, okay?
Here's a non cliché. I was wearing my big stupid shirt with the pegasus on it and khaki shorts. I hadn't remembered what I was wearing, but I just looked back and found a photo on Facebook. I'm in the back garden, smiling with a friend and some dude I don't know. And once I saw I was wearing that shirt, I remembered I had decided to wear it because I was feeling gross and fat that day. That shirt couldn't hug a curve if it tried. And no, there was no sign of cleavage. Which is mostly due to me not really having any, but still, I'm just saying, my outfit wasn’t “asking for it”.
So yeah, Facebook. I just went back to see what I was wearing, and then the next picture was of you, standing against a mural, your back to me. I'm glad your back was to me in that picture.
The party was winding down, and someone had decided the after party was at your place.
“Ohhhh... so you went back to his place?”
Fuck that. Everyone partied at their place all the time. No big deal. Yeah, I went to his place, their place. Why wouldn't I? We were all friends.
Your place was on the other side of town. You came over to me in the garden and said I could ride doubles on your bike. That made me feel good and fuzzy. Okay, so I should mention we were friends who made out sometimes, and I sort of liked you. Nbd.
That's why I have that photo of you against the mural in the alley, we were out there getting your bike.
The bike ride was fun. I hadn't ridden doubles on a bike in a long, long time. A “seater” we'd call it here. I had to keep my legs out while you pedaled and my calves began to ache, but it was too much fun, speeding through the city, both of us hollering into the dark night, one of my hands gripping the underside of the saddle, the other holding onto you.
On the way into the house you said “Let's smoke a bowl” and I laughed because you always said this and always forgot that I wasn't into getting high, but this time I just said “Yeah, whatever”.
And then we were in your room with its amber glow and it was warm and good, and we lay together, fully clothed and you passed the bowl and then I kissed you and nestled my head on your chest and started talking about my grandad. I don't remember why, but I remember lying there, and telling you all about my grandad.
And after that I remember waking up. Actually, I don't want to talk about this part, or the morning. Or the next three weeks when I sat like a zombie in work and constantly felt nauseous and thought I was going to have to quit if the feeling didn't go away, or how I bumped into you in the market with a mutual friend and my throat dried up and you insisted on grinning and giving me a big tight hug, or how I had to see you at every party or show I went to over the next two months and absolutely, most definitely not how on my last night in town you hit on me and I actually went with it because I felt like if I hooked up with you again it would be on my own terms and maybe I could somehow rewrite the whole story just by writing my own ending, maybe even because part of me still liked you and wanted you to like me. Gross. It didn't work. I am ashamed of myself for that. but not as ashamed as I am of you
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