Drift

In town today, in search of Twister lollies and the perfect spot in the local park for an impromptu picnic, I saw a boy.
A boy I recognised but didn't know.
I knew him- that is, used to know he was- what made him laugh- the little intricacies of his personality the made him tick.
I fell asleep next to him, 3 other people in the bed. I fell asleep on his bare chest, his arms around me. How we managed to sleep so well in a tutu (me) and nothing but a pair of Topman boxers and a pair of orange aviators (him) is anyone's guess.
When we got our GCSE's, we hid in the bathroom at the celebratory piss-up we attended. We talked about the future. We sat for hours, in the silence and the yellow light from the bare bulb, his head cradled to my chest. He was pissed, and probably can't remember.
He bought me a McMuffin, after a night on the town. We sat in the corner, listened to Sara Bareilles- he never was much of a talker.
He was never one for emotion either, but I remember curling up on the sofa in my room, amongst the piles of pillows, and talking to him online when he was in France. I can quite clearly remember idly twirling a spinning top on my dresser as he told me he missed me- he never says that to anyone. I guess I took it for granted at the time.

Now, I walk up to him, say 'Hi'. Say it's good to see him he says it's good to see me; it is good. It's been too long.
I almost consider saying that I don't like not having around him anymore, to have random conversations with and collapse on after a night out.
We used to tumble together, too naturally, liking the fact that we remained friends despite how different we were. Now, we've drifted apart. We've cut our hair- seen boys, seen girls. Bought new Converse- I wonder what he did with the old ones- I still have mine. They got so muddy during our random escapades- getting caught in a freak storm at a theme park, going walking around his village at 3am. He used to laugh at me at how muddy they got- I never was the tidiest person.

I look at my new Converse- shiny, purple, new, excruciatingly clean- and wondered how we could drift so far apart.

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.

Glorious

'Nnnyyuugghh?'
An incomprehensible groan is all I can manage as I am rudely awoken by the melodic saxophones of Sly Mr Fox.
Christ, 6:39 AM. Where am I? A double bed in a magnolia dream of a bedroom, all sweeping cream drapes and chocolate leather photo frames. Beside me, a blonde, whose bob is stuck to her face by a crusty trail of dribble.
'H,' I gently implore, 'Wake up!'
The overwhelming tiredness spares me no mercy- pain! Agonising pain! I didn't even drink- we just stayed up until the small hours eating pizza and watching Roswell box sets! Such is life, I guess- the worst headaches follow the most pathetic nights in.
The mirror is just as unforgiving as the fatigue- mad hair, deep dull eye bags, the remnants of last nights eyeliner swept across my cheek.
30 minutes, two glasses of fruit juice, 1 pair of GHD's and a few minor miracles later, and I'm looking as good as can be expected. We're bundled into the car, huddled in parkas and squashed together by assorted picnic tables.
Why, why did I agree to this? Mainly because I'm poor- the fund I've hoarded from my three failed attempts at employment is dwindling, and honestly, flogging cheap tat at an indoor market is the best option.
Upon arrival, I praise the Lord for whoever invented lifts, even if it is a bit of a squeeze with all our boxes of junk and display tables. Christ, I shouldn't be up yet.
The next few hours are a blur of trying to make our tat look buyable, checking out the competition and getting an eyeful of the cute checkout guy in M+S ("Did you see him?" "Cute in a messed-up hair sort of way, kind of like K's ex?" "That's the ticket- hot daaayyymn!")
My shift on our embarrassingly poor stall ends at 11- I am thrown at the mercy of the local public transport system.
In go the earphones: Mariana's Trench on full volume, baby.
Out come the contents of my pockets: Phone, MP3, purse, loose change outside of purse, handful of bangles, tickets upon tickets upon ticket, a stray jellybean or two.
And scattered around is my impromptu bus picnic lunch- spinach and pesto pasta, hot chili crisps, fruit salad, and of course chocolate.
Of course, I completely miss my second bus- apparently, running behind the bus, waving your arms and yelling 'WAIT! WAIT!' only works in the movies. All the best things only work in the movies.
2 hours later, I'm finally with The Squeeze (yes, he lives that far away). I dive down onto the bed, bury myself underneath the covers.
'Are you OK?'
'Yeh, yeh. I just... fancy a nap.' I giggle.
'Of course you do.'
Of course I don't. It doesn't take long until we're together, more together than we've ever been before, the kind of together that makes napping the last thing on my mind.
We travel- his house, my house, cross-bloody-county. He sees my family, I see his- we make polite conversation, but I think both of us are thinking about that glorious afternoon. What does it mean, we ask ourselves. It means nothing really- nothing has changed, nothing will change. I love him, he loves me, and it's just something that happens. It's fun, but so are alot of things. What we have isn't defined my one glorious afternoon.
After dropping in for a cup of tea (I'm technically staying with H this weekend, whilst her parents are having a long-weekend in Spain), just so my mother knows I'm still breathing, he walks me back to H's. We kiss, he holds me, tels me he doesn't want to leave. We both know he will, in search of chips.
At H's door, I am greeted by my whole band of friends, in skimpy pyjamas. Together, they chorus:
'BLATANTLY got some!'
And I did.
They scream in delight.

We dance until the wee hours- there's vodka and girl talk and a close encounter of the male kind (luckily, the boys didn't manage to inflitrate in the house- they may have been disappointed to find us without make-up, swigging back vodka and discussing foreplay, and not the naked pillow fight they were envisioning).
Girly sleepovers realy are the best- you get to order in food whenever, dance without worrying about high heels and looking sexy, sleep in an actual bed in actual pyjamas with no make-up to worry about. And of course, there's brilliant conversation and random escapades.

The day is long, relentless- memorable. I make it until 4:30 AM until I finally keel over. Everyone has left by the time I come around- me and H tidy up quietly,comfy T-shirt dresses and revitalising moisturiser the orders of the day. When I finally leave that night to quickly update my politics notes for school on Monday, I'm knackered- but this glorious long weekend will stay with me for quite some time.

Clocks

9pm - Another Friday night on the town, another crappy club packed with one hundred intoxicated horny teenagers, another shit DJ who thinks he's a God. Every week, a different pub gets stormed, the locals terrorised and the bar drained. Tonight, suffice to say, is no exception.
The night is young- it's all meet and greets, air kisses, and the impatient girls trying to get a dance going. I'm happy to get the drinks in, sit back, and watch things take their natural course. Five minutes ago, I was in someone's bedroom, polishing off fish and chips with my girlfriends, applying purple eyeliner, smoothing out my plaid minidress and stepping into my Hampstead charity shop heels. Now, I'm being dragged to the dance floor by a girl in a cream dress- 'AWESOME to see you!' she drawls, already reasonably wankered.
Oh well- time to get started, then...


0am- 'Do you know these guys?'
'No. Do you'
'No bloody idea...'
The four guys who were grinding me from all angles finally wander off, leaving me in the arms of my current squeeze. I can pick out almost every face in the crowd- the friends of friends, the casual acquaintances, the old school friends, the old flames...
I see H in the arms of her ex, her face the picture of confusion, wondering whether or not this is the best idea. W, crying into the chest of a boy she doesn't know, hurt once again by her ex. I, leading a stranger outside for a drunken fumble she'll regret in the morning. K, gathering her belongings again, looking wistfully at the boy she attached herself to, as he slides his hands down the back of someone else's knickers. L, fresh from a break up, throwing herself at any and every boy in close proximity.
I see them all, their love lives spanning out into a web of pain and puzzlement. Each web merges into each other, as old flames are passed from mouth to mouth in search of something with meaning. I look at them all, and wonder how their lives got so complicated.
I see S, staring down at me, hands on my ass, and small tipsy smile on his face. I look at him, and wonder how my life got so simple.

1am- Finally, I get him to myself. We go back to my place. He watches me go about my nighttime routine- take my tablets, take off my dress, put my kitsch robot necklace back on the stand, make a cup of tea, drink it. He brushes the hair out of ym face; calls me beautiful. I put down my mug, carefully; slowly. Within five minutes he's in my bed, on his back, kissing me like my lips are strangers to him.

2am- We lie on our sides, hands clasped, completely naked. I see the satisfaction in his eyes. We don't speak; we don't move. We simply breathe, and try to figure out whether or not we're still awake.

3am- 'Do you believe in ghosts?'
We're still naked, his arms around me.
'Guess so. You?'
'Yeh, I guess.'
'Is it strange how sometimes you remind me of me?'
'Not really. We're not similar enough for it to be considered narcissism.'

The next day- I got no sleep. We get on a bus, go somewhere-anywhere-nowhere. We talk food and fantasies and bank robbers with nothing to lose. I can feel sleep is near, so I nuzzle against that cinnamon, tangerine, ash and soap scented neck.
I'm still wondering how life got this simple, right up until the moment my eyes close.

Phoenix

K grabbed my wrist and dragged me down the corridor; past a parade of superheroes, cartoon characters, rave kids, rock stars and showgirls.
'What is it?' I ask. Maybe she can't hear me over the music, maybe she's just ignoring me- either way she doesn't answer. She yanks me up the spiral staircase; the parade of costumed teens swirl below me,as if in a kaleidoscope. I suddenly snap back to attention as K pokes my rib.
'Look!'
We appear to be in a hallway full of couples making out. I scan the room for something noticeable; a showgirl grinding against a vampire; two rave kids heading for a bedroom; a schoolgirl removing a boy's shirt.
Oh.
A boy I had seen stroking K's hair less than an hour ago.
'Shit...'
Before I can say anything else, K is dragging me back downstairs, past a group of topless dancers, past the towers of cans in the kitchen and straight outside. She lets go of me suddenly, running into the night, arms flailing behind her like tan streamers. 'Fuck!' I her hear curse as she comes to a stop still. She sits on the wall at the top of the drive, drunkenly swaying.
'I thought... he was...' half-formed words spill for her mouth, the ends of sentences shrouded in alcohol. 'She's probably fucking him right now'
I hug her. It's all I can do. We sit in silence, mascara-streaked tears silently falling down her face. I can't tell what is drunkenness and what is heartache.
K is a complex creature- depressed, drunk, slightly anorexic- if there's a disorder she;s probably had it. But, like a phoenix in the flames, she always seems to rise above her internal dramas, turning up to a party looking more fabulous than any of us thought humanly possible. The one thing she really can't rise above is boys- she is essentially a hopeless romantic. Once she sets on them, that's it- she's theirs, irrevocably, even if they don't want her. Heartache in such instant attachments is almost inevitable, but can usually be drowned by masses of vodka and a new target.
K notices I'm shivering- I am, after all, only wearing a badly-thought out Ann Summers ensemble.
'Go fetch my bag.'
'Why?'
'I'm going home.'
I sigh, agreeing to her demands. Back inside, the heat and smell are suddenly overbearing. I crawl all over the house- how hard can an orange vinyl bag be to find?- but no sign. I ask around, but mainly just get blank looks or casual gropes for my trouble.
There's only one room left- the room which the boy just disappeared into.
No choice, I guess.
I throw open the door unabashedly, still worrying what i might discover.
No need for such worries, it seems- the room is full of people, the schoolgirl he was embracing nowhere to be seen.
'Is K alright?' someone asks.
'I saw her disappearing into the bathroom earlier- she's not bulimic again, is she?'
'Umm... no, no i don't think so. She's just... she's leaving.'
'What? Why?' The boy looks up, curious. Everyone waits for an answer.
'Not now,' I usher, 'Have you seen her bag?'

Midnight (Part II)

An hour or so later, we sit alone, whispering the New Year into existence.
'Any resolutions?' he asks, he hand still stroking circles across my spine.
'Yeh,' I hesitate, wondering if I should be disclosing this much to a boy I've never spoken to before, 'To take things slower, with boys.'
'I can help you with that.'
'You can, but you won't.'
His thumb strokes my lip, silencing me. I'm lifted off him. He presses my back against the cool wall, our legs intertwining. I gaze up at him, his soft features illuminated by a string of blue fairy lights above us. His hands skim my arms, shoulders, neck, chin. My face is tilted to meet his, those warm lips tracing my features until, just when I can't take anymore, he kisses me again. The gentle tug of his lips against mine, so impassioned, so charged, so... unexpected. I can feel myself shuddering, but he holds me against his chest, so I'm secure and disarrayed all at once.
My heart begins to slow once more- I look up into his dark eyes, wondering why I hadn't noticed them before.
He shakes his head.
'What?' I ask.
'How did this happen to us?'
'I don't know.' And I don't.

Midnight (Part I)

Another party, another night of debauchery, another shoulder to sleep on. The room is brimming with people; the counter is covered with empties and elbows, and I find myself instinctively curling against the body next to mine.

In my dizzy, sleep-deprived state, it takes me a while to notice that the people and the lights and the music have dissolved- there is only this ash, soap and tangerine scented shoulder left. 'Where'd everyone go?' I almost yawn, but I stop as soft fingertips press against my feverish cheek. There was something about that moment- the tenderness, the atmosphere- that made me certain that we were going to kiss.
I take his hand, trace the lines of his palm- love, life- and coil my fingers around this. His thumb skates across my knuckle. Minutes, hours, moons and Suns pass between us in the dark, until my body fantastically contorts around his, so were are face to face, lip to lip.
His arms encircle me, my back bowing against his touch. We're so close now, so close to...
And then he kisses me, and then I stop thinking.

Undoing

It seems that this holiday has been the undoing of me.
Admittedly, if your idea of fun is crashing house parties, trampolining in the dark, making out with random guys on someone's sister's bedroom floor, avoiding peeing for 12 hours for fear of tripping over a vomiting teen or getting stampeded by a naked sauna party, catching a group of strangers playing catch with your boxers, eating cornflakes in bed after waking up in last night's eyeliner at 1pm, spending the next night clubbing until 2am in indecently small hotpants, debating whether or not you'll regret kissing jailbait the next morning, eating cheese in someone else's trackies at 3am, dancing for an hour with a group of girls in bunny ears, narrowly avoiding getting puked on by a wasted old flame, stealing people's phones and reading their dirty texts, witnessing your best mate lose their virginity a few feet away from you and ending the week hiding in someone's bedroom with a random group of kid's discussing the weeks bedroom habits, you would've found my half term ticked all of the boxes. Me? I'm bloody exhausted.
Why is it, when I have a day to myself, I always long for this sort of scandal, but when I find myself exhaustedly weaving through heaps of stoned/wasted/naked people, and puddles of vomit/blood/semen, I long for one day off?
Not only have I been out partying and clubbing every night, I've spent my days waitressing. It's been a full house every lunchtime, so I've been up to my eyeballs in cappucinos and overpriced light bites.
By the end of this week, I'm crawling into bed at the pathetic time of 11pm, but still find myself hungry for the next party. I'll never learn...