It
is 1am. I don't know whose house this is. I vaguely remember being
introduced to someone called Laura, but I'm not sure if it is her
house. It is a good party. There is a lot of screaming, running
around, people dancing and falling over. Some men are burning things
in the back yard.
I
sit on the leather sofa in the living room. I look at the white
carpet. I don't know why people have white carpets.
I
have drunk all my own wine, so I stole someone else's Sailor Jerry.
It's a bit too sweet for me, I like my rum less sugary, but I drink
it anyway. You do what you have to do.
The
last time I saw Amanda and Gin was a while ago. Amanda was attempting
to perform a improvised and violent piece of contemporary dance to
Fight For Your Right to Party and Gin was talking to a man with
cropped blonde hair, running her index finger up and down his thigh.
I'm happy, enjoying being quiet, feeling drunkenly mellow.
A
man sits down next to me. He is wearing a Ramones T-shirt. He has
brown eyes.
“Hello,”
he says. “I’m Will.”
Hello
Will," I say: “I like your T-shirt. I like the Ramones.”
Will
says: “I don’t know who they are really, I just bought it because
I thought it was cool. I like your boobs. I’ve been looking at you
all night.”
There
is a crash, a smash, and a chorus of screams from the direction of
the kitchen, suggesting Amanda's dance routine has come to its
inevitable conclusion.
I
say: “The Ramones were a seminal punk band. You really should
listen to them, especially if you have their name emblazoned on your
chest. How can you wear a t-shirt endorsing a band you’ve never
listened to? What if it emerges that you think they’re crap?”
Will
looks confused.
He
says: “It’s only a T-shirt.”
I
say: “But by wearing it you are basically telling a lie. It is
making a statement about your taste in music - and, by extension,
your lifestyle and personality - which is, in fact, not at all
accurate. Don’t you want to be a truthful person?”
"I,
uh, I think I just saw my friend come in," Will says, already
scanning the crowd for another prospect. “I’m just, uh, I need to
go and say hello to him.”
He
leaves quickly, as if a speedy exit will somehow erase our entire
conversation. He is immediately replaced by Amanda, who is looking shifty.
"We
need to leave," she says. "I've just broken the glass in
one of the kitchen cabinets."
On
the way home, we stop at the petrol station because I have a sudden
craving for a Mars Bar. Amanda stands at the magazine rack and sneers
at a copy of Grazia while I queue.
Then
I realise the man behind the counter is beautiful, which is a
problem.
"Beautiful"
is not something you often hear said about men. This is a failing on
the part of society. I like to say what I mean, and sometimes I don't
want to say "He was hot," or "He was goodlooking",
or whatever. I want to say "He was beautiful." But one is
not really allowed to say this of a man.
Nevertheless,
it is true.
I
look. I have no idea how to react. This is one of the problems with
beauty. I have to carry the Mars Bar, walk, find my purse and give
him money, all in the face of his complete overwhelmingness, while
drunk. This is going to be an issue, damnit.
There is a difference between prettiness and beauty. Prettiness
is manageable. Prettiness is not threatening, which is why everyone
likes it. To meet a pretty person brightens your day, leaves you
smiling.
Beauty,
on the other hand, is usually shocking because it it is so blankly
unexpected. It leaves you feeling stunned, especially when
you come across it growing wild in council estates or insurance
offices, or wearing a Tesco uniform. Like an orchid perched on top
of a pile of garbage.
(Once
I was spending the day in court - for reasons I may or may not tell
you about later - and a woman was being tried for GBH. She was a
heroin addict, a repeat offender - shoplifting, theft, assault,
burglary. She had got into a fist fight with another woman over
drugs, kicked her in the chest when she was down and cracked two of
her ribs. She was almost certainly heading for prison, not for the
first time.
She
was one of the most shockingly beautiful women I have ever seen.
Half-starved, feral, unwashed, sulking in handcuffs and a pair of
dirty trackie bottoms, and you couldn't look at anything else. When
she was brought in, the room went still)
I
walk up to the counter. My palms are sweating. He smiles suddenly at
me and I feel my IQ drop 50 points. Great. Now I've lost the ability
to form sentences as well.
I
pay for my Mars Bar. I mumble a thank-you without meeting his eyes. I
walk away.
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