i was so awake on valentines day. my bones ached as if they had been soaked through with rain water, but i pulled on my new tights. boots. a short skirt. my uniform, as it were, inside of work. outside or work. funny how such a tantalizing ensemble can start to feel plain. i nod along to the prostitutes in sweat pants. they just got tired of fitting in.
we head to the venue where the band has a show. i make half hearted conversation with my companion, neglecting to tell her that it does not matter one two penny damn to me that she plans to leave early. i have a date on the dumbest date night ever created by god and santa claus to get rid of all of that left over chocolate. i think that easter needs a plant so we can kill something green during every holiday.
we are just in time to see some clever over weight hipster screaming into a sausage or something about whiskey. no one has ever done that before. i think maybe he works for the phillips administration, because when i go to the bar, i do order a rail whiskey. i brandish my goods at the stage, hoping to show him what a good salesperson he is. this is the final thought of the evening not sidetracked by some other monkey without a gun.
my date shows just in time for my attention span to fail me. i do what i always do and offer his services as a chauffeur to all of my friends who are not even coming with us to wherever we decide to go. he is a fan of the neighborhood and i am a glutton to punish so so we end up in that bar, my own little swept corner of hell.
i shuffle up to the bar, suddenly shy. i study the floor while my date orders me a drink. he knows the light hearted version of the truth. the side which keeps me dirt and dust free, though i am the wanker who has kept the tension brewing for the past six months. when i am uncomfortable, stick pencils on everyone's chairs. a true artist wants everyone to feel their pain. the lead poisoning is just a bonus.
we sit there most of the night,shouting over the shitty band. or dj. or whatever sans romanica they have keeping people from feeling cheated out of getting laid. he moves to my side of the booth and i want the night to drain away. i daydream about bad tv and orange slices while he prattles on about something that i know i should not know about him yet. i have a sickening sense of what the fuck and that fucking bartender isn't helping his pal here in the booth one bit.
i get tired of giving the wrong impression so we move on to a different bar. i am drunk and have given up cool and given way to being charming. i never flirt unless i am trying to go home. instead of getting into a cab, though, i go home with him.
when i wake up the next day, i am warm, dressed and alone, save for the earring i lost during my thrashing. my darling date opted for the couch, though i would have been able to sleep standing up.
he is chivalry personified, dropping me right at my door. i know we will not see each other again, not in this way, at the end of an evening, as there was no light no spark. i will probably chase that feeling forever. the one you get after leaning up against someone, just talking, all night long.
a few hours later i woke up coughing and jelly-headed. i might not have caught the love bug on valentines day, but i did catch a cold.
