Part 1 - Love

I accidentally fell in love last week. Like all accidents it was unexpected and in fact: very annoying. Perhaps unexpected was the wrong choice of word, I’ve always been a bit in love with you but I didn’t anticipate that my desires would come to fruition, ever. After all I’d thought about it far too often, you knew my ex and I wasn’t particularly quiet about my desire to ride you. Anyways, I spent a week in love with you and now that the incessant head-noise is gone, the waiting, watching my phone - the thinking of you has suddenly stopped too:  poof. At first it was a relief but now I feel bewildered ‘pranked’ perhaps. Who’s to say.

Like all great romantic disasters our fleeting love-affair began on the dancefloor. It happened for the first time a few weeks ago. All frocked up in my favourite dress, face set with a mild dusting of crippling dread – the girls were out, determined to locate some sort of night and seize it. Together we floated to the front of the queue on our very own ‘yellow brick road’ led forward by dirty rope and a steaming trail of pineapple ice. Suddenly realising just how pissed I was I took a deep breath and conjured up my best ‘sober’ face: 3,2,1 action: “HowW’s your night” I said, the words tumbling out of my mouth. The bouncer smiled suspiciously, glancing down at the worn plastic, my dishevelled P Plate license demanding no more presence and gusto than a primary school wind ensemble, I prepared myself to be turned away. “The sticker, it's on the wrong side love, did you move?” Of course I’d moved, I was perpetually subletting, everyone in the Inner West knew that. “Ah yea sorry,” I  apologised, fumbling my words. “Better fix that, have fun,” he said kindly.

“You too” I murmured, cracking a lopsided grin. What a thing to say - my night was off to an excellent start.

I think that the first 3 seconds on the dancefloor are my favourite because you never quite know what to expect. It could be wonderful, the crowd vibrant, well dressed - or you could be greeted by an unnerving empty space, a scattering of ‘grabby’ men here and there: a real lucky dip. Tonight was nothing of the sort it was bustling, fun - the rush of moving bodies, heat, sweat and you very drunk but very happy bobbing softly behind the DJ, long arms wrapped around the torso of another girl. Our eyes met at the same time and I selfishly watched you, your body the way you were holding her, touching her as you too watched me from a distance.

After very rudely undressing each other with our eyes for long enough we made contact in the stairwell, “hi.” You asked how I was, introducing your date: “you’re so beautiful” she said, her eyes glassy and if I wasn’t mistaken: mirrored with a dash of seduction, to which I replied, “so are you.” It was all a bit fucking weird and that was that for the night. I thought about you a few times in the weeks that followed.

I had a good feeling about the Friday to come. I’d painted my nails, they looked good from a distance and my RUSSH horoscope had informed me that this month I could expect fun and flirtation - the night was full of expectation, there was even a Hinge boy I was expecting to lock lips with mid-morning. Instead, I glanced up and there you were, bopping back and forth head tilted back in pure, interrupted joy - mouth pressed slightly open as you exhaled, your hot breath drifting towards the ceiling. You were definitely rolling, I better not interrupt, I was happy looking anyway. 

“You cut your hair,” I gazed up again, an expression of terror splashed across my face. I felt a bit caught and hadn’t the time to ready myself to be cool, sexy or at best collected. Soft, watery blue eyes, the kind that you might lose yourself and all of your fucking personal

belongings in stared back at me. “I like it, your hair…want a ciggie?” In future I’d recommend you come with a personal trigger warning; it would save us all lots of trouble.

Fingertips dancing over knuckles, made chilly by the night air grazed the synthetic turf, our mouths interlocked. We stayed gripped to one another hour after hour until the sun rose over the clouds and pupils started to shrink from the size of overripe grapes to little sultanas, losing their plumpness, dark circles and fatigue simmering beneath an undercoat of Champagne and Ritalin, bubbles dancing across our tongues, the surface of our lips. Stuck we were, swaying back and forth, your head bent into my neck, gently kissing my cheek - scared to let go. I better really savour this I thought, really enjoy it.

Waiting for the Uber I stood convulsing with excitement, mascara smudged, nipples hard from the early morning chill as prams and power walkers pushed past. Making it home I unlocked the door softly and pulled off my clothes, leaving them in a neat pile on the floor, sitting poised on my bed in my underwear - straight up, no slouching, full of pride. I watched as the sun burnt through my window (a by-product of a lack of blinds) and this time thought of only you.

Part 2 - Restless

“Can I take you out - I’d like to take you out” you said, interrupting whatever ketamine induced ramble I was on. “Oh yea, I’d like that,” I said - careful not to be too taken a back.  After all any display of affection on the DF should always bet taken with a grain of salt: at the end of the day, we were really fucked up.

In some ways quick disappointment is also easier because when you inevitably do never get a text back you can brush off your magnificent (albeit one sided connection) as no more than a hot and sexy moment on the dancefloor. A heat of the moment opportunity seized, not a rejection, nor an embarrassment. So, you can only imagine my surprise and anxiety that followed when the date itself was pencilled in pretty seamlessly: for a week later. And so began my slow descent into madness, a cycle that can be best explained like this:

I went to bed > I gazed at the roof.

I went to work > I forgot to brush my teeth.

I burnt my onions > I undercooked my chicken.

I thought I might’ve given myself salmonella > I imagined shitting my pants: and I worried.

I worried about you getting sick > I worried about you losing interest in the week that passed.

I worried about the bags forming under my eyes > I smoked to make the worry go away.

Most of all I worried about you calling it off.

So began my week from hell where everything felt new; a new job, counteracted with another old one, study and the weight of very strong, palpable feelings or another person, something that I hadn't felt since I was a teenager. By Saturday afternoon I found myself working an event sweaty palmed, cheeks flushed. I’d never cut scones with such dexterity: brimming, silently plotting in my head. The speaker could've been braiding her pubic hair and I wouldn't have noticed, there was too much to think on – that day was everything and at the same time nothing at all. I ran home, sweating and in what seemed like one breathy gasp I found myself parading down Australia St only moments away from you.

Part 3 – A fever dream

It was Sunday and I began to wake, peeling my sleep crusted eyes open feeling surprisingly rested, a far cry from the sleepless nights of situationships past when all I wanted to do was piss out a brewing UTI and fucking leave. After a few double takes I came to the realisation that you were in fact in my bed, head resting in perfect stillness, mouth closed and breathing softly: I think I snored for a good portion of the night.

Deciding I’d stared at you for long enough I dozed back into a light sleep as memories from the night before pried their way into my consciousness. We’d stayed awake all night, so there was a fair bit of ground to cover. They appeared sporadically and in no order:

1. A bottle of orange wine – half a packet of cigarettes.

2. You caught at the bar the space so crowded that people were practically caught under your armpits – grinning nervously, two pina coladas in hand.

3. A kitchen dance – or two.

4. Luther Vandross.

5. Being horny but too drunk to fuck – watching Muriel’s Wedding instead, your deep belly laughs reverberating against my head as I lay on your chest.

6. Going to sleep fully clothed, being held.

7. Perhaps my favourite: the sun rising gently, you rolling me over and kissing me softly:  the decision entirely mutual, telepathic and easy.

8. The perfect fit – gentle and clean (must’ve been the FemFresh wipes).

I woke again, the pleasant joy from the last half hour spent reminiscing was replaced by crippling anxiety, the knowledge that the moment you left I’d return to perpetually worrying about you. It gave me the shits because sex aside I really had NO idea how you felt, at all. I walked you to the door and gave you a parting kiss. It probably felt a bit desperate, nervous perhaps because you whipped out some dumb line about feeling hungover and looking like shit: “oh Newtown station isn’t ready” or “I’m looking a bit rough,” which didn’t help in the  slightest, you looked beautiful, your eyes looked glassy from drinking, like little rock pools. I wondered what was in these pools, what was below the surface. Were there treasures?  Wonderful, undiscovered marine-life? Or just cunty, poisonous creatures waiting to paralyse me from the waist up?

In the days that followed my panic began to settle, you’d saved my playlists and had lined up another date. We were to see an incredibly boring documentary, but I didn’t care because you seemed to think I was smart and I found your attempt to be impressive endearing. Better yet I only had to wait two days.

Part 4 - Bond St Blues

He never did take me to see that boring fucking documentary. Expecting a royal dumping I reached for my preferred band-aid solution: a very strange night out. This time my poison was a ‘no clothes allowed’ party with my book store friends, but at the end of the day there’s only so much shallow flirtation and a good ‘Gimme More’ remix can do before you eventually  feel like shit again.

I awoke with a crippling hangover and made the desperate journey to mum and dads, bags under my eyes and something pungent leaking in my bag, the Manly Fast Ferry had seen me in a far better way. As life often does in its characteristically cunning, crappy style I was greeted by a text from him: stellar timing. It was fitted with a number of passive aggressive elements which I found offensive and amusing: including a nickname reserved exclusively for my best friend, an ironic smiley face and grammar mistakes, but I think the cherry on top was his hope that I’d have a great Mother’s Day (?). Of course I would, my mum was a fucking hoot: but fat chance now.

He said he had some stuff going on personally but wanted to catch up sometime in the future. It was abrupt, confusing and operated on no clear timeline. It’s probably my worst rejection yet.

In my eyes I think the saying ‘everything happens for a reason’ is dumb - fucked up unprovoked shit happens all the time, but I’m struggling to find meaning, a clear lesson from our brief encounter. You came, you fucked me, stole my music and my favourite movie, all of which you’ll probably now share with another girl.

I should’ve taken those fucking ciggies.