Drinks.
Too sweet.
Glasses lined up on the bar.
The clink of smaller glasses domino-ing in.
Wedding drunk is such an ethereal kind of
drunk, Ava.
And I – with no place to live, no jangling
keys inside my pocket to weigh me down – now floating
almost – in my evening dress, in love – maybe – maybe
in love –
Snake Boy hugged me, handed me a drink,
It’s on the house.
I wasn’t angry. This is important, Ava.
I wasn’t angry then.
I took my drink and another and went to find the man –
the love I’d loved and might again – the one who’s large,
rough hands I’d seen just now in the taxi rolling a
cigarette and thought – Oh to be a Rizla in this man’s
hands, rolled and wetted with his tongue – that’s what I
want – and he tucked it behind his ear in the red glow of
the traffic lights and holyfuck, Ava, my heart – stupid
heart –
where was he?
I ducked down through the low door to the
garden – scrubby plants, big bins –
there,
but locked in close and giggly
conversation with a girl,
I stopped, stood dumbly with the drinks,
and they looked up – him a little slower to draw
his eyes away from hers.
This is my girlfriend, he said,
have you guys met before?
I recognised her then,
the youngest sister of the sisters, Ava,
golden,
blonde,
she looked unsure, then
smiled and nodded,
yeah, she said, at that old house, maybe,
