Night 1: Stammering

Another night of drinking whiskey on the rocks and thin mints.  Or rather a first night of drinking whiskey on the rocks and thin mints.  Because I’ve never had such a night before.  And it sounds like a night to drown your sorrows.  But I don’t have any sorrows.

And instead it becomes a night to celebrate.  Because it is another night that you are left stammering for words.  But the whiskey is not to blame.  And I don’t think it is the thin mints either.  But rather it is this beautiful girl that you have become friends with.

And it is this thing that you are getting used to.  So you no longer wonder at the awkwardness of stammering.  But rather how some things never get any easier.

Night 2: Suffocating

And the night before.  A first night in a San Diego bowling alley.  And you were surrounded by friends.  There was karaoke and pitchers of beer.  A balloon hat for the birthday girl.  A very different night.

But you were suffocating.  Despite how much you wanted to be there.  And you did want to be there.  Or at least until you got there.  And then it quickly became one of those nights that you wished that you were a smoker.  And not just for their black lungs, but because you wanted an excuse to go outside.  To get away.  If only for a moment.

Because you found yourself resisting old tendencies.  Because a friend used to call you the “lone wolf”.  And it was a term that fit.  And you wonder when it won’t fit anymore.  Or maybe it is that it doesn’t fit anymore.  But it’s only now that you are beginning to miss it.

Because many nights you have a pack now.  And you shouldn’t be surprised that they notice that is something is the matter.  Nor should you be surprised that they want to make things better.  But you aren’t sure there is anything they can do.

Night 3:  Thirsty

The week after.  And friends hide away behind the backlit screen.  The party-goers watch their shadow kisses.  It ‘s good to see my friend.  And to meet his girlfriend.  Because we were neighbors once.  And when I left he told me that we would be better friends.  I remember thinking it was this strange thing.  But it has oddly been true.

And when the friends leave, I am alone for a while.  Though not really alone.  Because a girl approaches me and hands me a bottle.

“You look thirsty,” she says to me.  And I look at the bottle briefly.  Wondering.  And I take a swig of sake.  But in truth I’m not really thirsty.

Some conversation follows.  More conversation than she wants.  More conversation than either of us want.  Because she wants more and less than I am willing to give.  And I want more and less than she is willing to give.  So we share more sake and go our separate ways.

And when I look up again, there is a girl hula hooping in the middle of the warehouse.  One circles around her neck.  And the other moves slowly down her body.

It’s late.  And the night is getting colder.  So shortly after, I decide to leave.

Night 4:  Overwhelmed

The Irish and their car bombs.  Magazines are torn apart.  In a frenzy to make headlines.  And we adorn the bar with a war of words.  “Fresh,” “Suburban.” “Boy.”  And “whore.”

And it is a strange thing we call human interaction.  Because somethings don’t have to be spoken.  But they just kind of happen.

The night ends with an overwhelming feeling.  That you are screwing up again.  But it is still a very good night.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *