It wasn’t ‘til I noticed she was sat filling out one of those daft Myspace questionnaire bulletin things that I realised I really didn’t like her but just tolerated her because she looked good with her clothes off, and that with them on she was just a fashion accessory I wore to make me look good, which she did until she opened her mouth. She always had really poor circulation so whenever she climbed into bed she’d be freezing cold which, in hindsight, I maybe should’ve taken as some sort of allegory. I didn’t though, that would’ve been insane.
But this was all before she started hitting out with all the ‘I’m so sorry’, ‘I never meant to hurt you’, ‘it wasn’t like that’, and the ‘I just needed somebody, he was there and you weren’t’ bullshit.
Anyway, I seen her in the pub and we started arguing almost immediately, which ended with her telling me really specifically how sad I was and that I just pure thought I was Aidan fucking Moffat. Obviously, I had absolutely no idea what she meant by that but thought it best to act defensively, so I told her she was a horrible bastard and I hoped she’d rot inwards, at which point the guy she left me for burst my lip and I, in turn, burst out laughing. Then, I think, that’s when the kicker-outers asked me to leave, but as I did I had one of those wee accidental dances with some guy on his way in - you know the way you do when you try and pass each other but both go the same way two or three times, which could only’ve emphasised my stupor.
The fresh air must’ve knocked me for six ‘cause save a vague recollection of shouting abuse at some screamers hanging out one of those embarrassing party limos, the next thing I know I’m in Mount Florida leaning against McNeill’s close door, which was fine because I really don’t mind losing a few hours - it’s the finding them again I’ve never been too keen on.
So I set off back to Garnethill which is quite a walk by anyone’s standards, and by the time I got to Vicky Road there wasn’t a single soul or car to be seen anywhere, and I must’ve been in some strange mood because I decided to walk right down the middle of the road which gave me an amazing feeling of freedom or harmony or something, like I was a wee boy again, away on some Huck-Finn type adventure. I bit into my lip, reopening the burst, enjoying the taste of my blood like some nostalgic reminder of when I used to stick pennies in my mouth before I’d even started the school: I think it must be the iron in the blood that tastes like copper; weird how blood tastes like money. Then the police snuck up behind me with the window down and told me to get the fuck out the road.
The End
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