(This work also appears in Clare Market Review: Maximalism)
The world is suddenly technicolour when for so long it’s been sepia. You revel in it.
Every part of you tingles as you step outside into the street. A cacophony of cars honk as you dash across the road. You’re careless. You skip, no — float to your destination.
You’ve been here for thirty minutes. But you’re so drunk. You’re just feeling everything. You’re thinking of him. He has eyes and ears and mouth you want to kiss. He’s no one particular but you want someone to bring back to bed. You’re not fussy. You’re so fucking chill actually.
You flirt. Hard. A tilt of the head when you ask him to elaborate on… whatever he’s been yapping about the past two minutes. You’re not fussed. You’re so chill. You giggle.
You both go out on the terrace for a smoke. You don’t smoke, you flirt. He gives you a cigarette and then lights it for you. It’s intimate. The smoke scratches your sore throat. You’re not taking care of yourself.
You spend more time chatting than actually inhaling any of the cigarette. He finishes his way before you finish yours. All that’s left to do is kiss. Kissing, hard. It feels like a padlock clicking into place.
You’re a dickhead. You’re imagining someone else. You’re imagining that you’re somewhere else. He doesn’t suspect any of it. You’re imagining someone else loving you, touching you, kissing you there. He doesn’t notice because you fuck like a champion.
You drift to sleep in a drunken haze as the technicolour fades.