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Tipsy

Tipsy is excusable, drunk is not. So that’s what I am. Tipsy. Sounds a bit gay, though. Half cut. That’s classy. That’s what men are. That’s what I am.

I don’t think I’da done it if I weren’t ‘tipsy’. But I needed to be to do it. That’s a sad indictment, isn’t it? When you consider you want to be emotionally intimate with that person and you can’t bring yourself to start that relationship with the uninhibited truth. One step from this to beating your kids with an empty gin bottle. A full gin bottle. Out of love. Maybe that’s extreme. Rewind me with me now a little.

There she is. God, she looks good. She looks happy. Does she ever not look happy? Who’s this guy? I bring the glass of Spar brand whiskey away from my lips to give a better view. Oh, I know, he’s one of her old mates. Must be. Is that better or worse than some new guy? I bet he fancies her. Who wouldn’t? He playfully slaps her on the arse. She’s laughing! She probably thinks he’s gay. I bet he goes home and wanks over this moment. Who wouldn’t? A laugh like that. God, she’s pretty. This must be love.

He’s gone. Good. Now’s my chance. Move. Can I still move? Yes. Gogogo. 10 feet – no eye contact yet, no worry. This music is awful. Who still listens to Alien Ant Farm? Although I did listen to a whole song when it came on the other day. WAIT. NO. FOCUS. 7 feet. This is an obscenely long living room. I must look pretty cool. Put on cool face. What does that look like? Do I have one? Do I just look bloated? Why did I wear trainers? Why didn’t Andy tell me she was coming? HE probably fancies her. Fucker.

3 feet. Shit. That snuck up on me. She’s still not looking. Slow up. No, that’ll look indecisive. You’re decided. You’re THE MAN. Is that puke over there? 2 feet. Smile, SMILE, SMILE.

1 foot – she looks happy. She’s probably gonna choose a cool CD. What’s her name? THE NAME! FUCK…WHAT…She’s not looking, you’ve time. I’m just standing here. Is that creepy?

“Hi.” NO! Why did I say that?
“Hey, how you doing?” That voice…it’s honey on toast. REPLY.
“How *you* doing?” NO! Not that! What does that even mean?!
“I’m good…I’m good.” She’s nodding. She’s comfortable in my company. Or she’s drunk. Shame. Perfect.

“That’s good that you’re good”. I’m a fucking muppet.
“Right.” That’s a shutdown, abort, abort. No! Pull this one out of the fire! She’s still nodding, after all. She’s stopped nodding. She’s still. SHE’S LOOKING AT ME. STARING, PRACTICALLY, GO FOR THE KILL.

“So…you’re cool.” Not bad. Simple, effective. Her mouth’s opening. The reply. She’s hot for you. Look at those eyes, they’re wide like…that’s vomit, not a reply. I’m glad I wore trainers. They were old anyway. Wait. What just happened? She’s thrown up on you, man. This is a disaster. No, think. She *totally* owes you one. My toes feel warm. A great reason to strike up a conversation next time. Maybe she’ll resent me for bringing it up. “Hi, I’m the guy who made you physically ill.” Disaster. Wait! I see carrots…peas…she had the lasagne too. NOBODY else had the lasagne, we must be soul mates! We can cook for our children together…this is a resounding success!

I don’t feel well.

*Vinay Patel 2006*

Categories: Writing
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