I’m on some stranger’s couch, groping at the red wine, and telling my mate that he may be cute but I am desperately in love so he must not even think of maybe wondering to think of maybe even trying to kiss me. Ok? Are you listening?
“For you guys”
She is holding out to us what looks like a big white round Tupperware lid. A tray of some sorts. But where are the shot glasses or whatever it is she is apparently offering us? What do I want with a tray?
“Not for us” my mate politely declines, in the same sceptical way he waved off the earlier offer of a tarot reading.
Was it her that offered to read our cards, or the other girl. The few characters are already confused in my inebriated head.
And I’m too wedged into the couch to be able to see anything above the white plastic rim, try as I meerkat might.
Off she swaggers.
“Hmm. Was that just a tray of coke?”
“Oh. How fascinating. I’ve always wanted to be offered a whole tray of coke. I always just kinda thought, if I was, it would be in some swanky Sandton or Clifton high rise apartment. Not really some students’ digs on some busy main road of some leafy suburbia. Are these students? Am I in a movie? Have I told you how wonderful my guy is…”
I’ve never taken coke. Never will. I’ve always just wanted the offer of a whole tray of the shit. It has the feeling of what “Big Time” stuff is made of. But I have always had this paranoia that I’d end up sneezing or breathing out too heavily, and get kicked out for causing their white expensive ego powder to be lost into the carpet threads.
Instead. I fell happily into a snooze, dreaming of a boy I miss more than I am feeling is healthy, on some stranger’s couch in some random’s apartment like I have vowed 1000 times before I would never do again.