Four
'Christ- it's like the undertaker's Christmas party!'
I'm inclined to disagree- I'm fairly sure any silence at an undertaker's Christmas party would have these undertones of sex, lies and deceit.
J sits at the centre of the table, ironic party hat perched on her blonde hair, gorging on our Indian feast of rices, naans, pokoras, chicken and curries across the spice spectrum, and doing her darndest to preserve the happy birthday atmosphere. Her shag-of-choice is banished to a distant corner of the celebrations, looking on sulkily, and doing his darndest to keep himself to himself. The reason for his sulkiness, his ex I, sits near us, a vision of pixie-cut hair and midnight blue silk, doing her darndest to pretend that she doesn't want him back. In the centre of the celebrations, several girls with similar dark mid-length hair, similar big belts and skinny jeans, and similar floaty tops simmer at the boy quietly- out of 'loyalty' to I, they haven't spoken to the boy in question since they broke up in the autumn. K flirts shamelessly with the boy in question- well, other than my squeeze, he is the only boy in the room- not that dating me stopped H flirting with him earlier in the evening.
The squeeze and myself do our best to circulate, see every face, keep out of the mess that well inevitably unravel if alcohol gets involved. Fortunately, only one bottle of champagne is involved in the night's revelries, so chances of an alcohol-fueled bloodbath seem all but impossible.
The end of the night brings with it a sigh of relief.
Throughout the chatter and clatter and the indian cusine, everyone seems to have aged. They each say their goodbyes, wearily embracing the rest of the group and exhaustedly placing expensive coats on heavy shoulders. For me, however, reaching 11pm without any argee-bhaji (ignore the pun) should be considered a minor miracle. There is a certain spring in my step I gather up my coat, kiss my goodbyes and head for the door. The streets are cold, and my flimsy Topshop dress does little to keep me warm. Luckily, as always my squeeze is there, arms around me, dashing in and out of lamplight right next to me. We reach my house near midnight- our breath is crystalline in the air, merging together.
'That could've gone better.'
'It could've gone much worse,' he assures me, wrapping us both in his hoodie.
'Thank you for coming tonight. Sorry for dragging you into that mess.'
'Glad to do it, beautiful.' He smiles.
'I love you, you know?'
'I know. I love you too.'
A brief embrace, and he's retreating into the murky darkness- probably in search of the nearest chip shop, knowing him.
Running into the warmth, I realise that my relief is tainted with disappointment- four and a half months later, and things still aren't any more united on the friendship front.
I'm inclined to disagree- I'm fairly sure any silence at an undertaker's Christmas party would have these undertones of sex, lies and deceit.
J sits at the centre of the table, ironic party hat perched on her blonde hair, gorging on our Indian feast of rices, naans, pokoras, chicken and curries across the spice spectrum, and doing her darndest to preserve the happy birthday atmosphere. Her shag-of-choice is banished to a distant corner of the celebrations, looking on sulkily, and doing his darndest to keep himself to himself. The reason for his sulkiness, his ex I, sits near us, a vision of pixie-cut hair and midnight blue silk, doing her darndest to pretend that she doesn't want him back. In the centre of the celebrations, several girls with similar dark mid-length hair, similar big belts and skinny jeans, and similar floaty tops simmer at the boy quietly- out of 'loyalty' to I, they haven't spoken to the boy in question since they broke up in the autumn. K flirts shamelessly with the boy in question- well, other than my squeeze, he is the only boy in the room- not that dating me stopped H flirting with him earlier in the evening.
The squeeze and myself do our best to circulate, see every face, keep out of the mess that well inevitably unravel if alcohol gets involved. Fortunately, only one bottle of champagne is involved in the night's revelries, so chances of an alcohol-fueled bloodbath seem all but impossible.
The end of the night brings with it a sigh of relief.
Throughout the chatter and clatter and the indian cusine, everyone seems to have aged. They each say their goodbyes, wearily embracing the rest of the group and exhaustedly placing expensive coats on heavy shoulders. For me, however, reaching 11pm without any argee-bhaji (ignore the pun) should be considered a minor miracle. There is a certain spring in my step I gather up my coat, kiss my goodbyes and head for the door. The streets are cold, and my flimsy Topshop dress does little to keep me warm. Luckily, as always my squeeze is there, arms around me, dashing in and out of lamplight right next to me. We reach my house near midnight- our breath is crystalline in the air, merging together.
'That could've gone better.'
'It could've gone much worse,' he assures me, wrapping us both in his hoodie.
'Thank you for coming tonight. Sorry for dragging you into that mess.'
'Glad to do it, beautiful.' He smiles.
'I love you, you know?'
'I know. I love you too.'
A brief embrace, and he's retreating into the murky darkness- probably in search of the nearest chip shop, knowing him.
Running into the warmth, I realise that my relief is tainted with disappointment- four and a half months later, and things still aren't any more united on the friendship front.
posted by Faire-a-Fête at
10:30
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