Flying by night
A rare occasion, to have found myself with four others, all but one less sober than I, as we walked down Chapel Street teased by feathering drizzle, some hours after the sun had set and the electric light-bulb moons had risen by a flicker, defying night in their luminous silent brooding.
I hadn't had much to drink all evening. I never drink much, but I drank a lot less than I might have otherwise allowed myself.
"Why are you still sober?" one of them had asked me after dinner, looking as if he was about to sway off his chair. But he was a happy drunk at that stage and he was cracking such hilarious jokes that none of us minded.
"She's responsible," another said.
Responsible? No, it wasn't that. I just didn't think my body could handle too much foreign matter today, not in its current state. I wasn't feeling brave enough to test its resistance.
When he was having a smoke outside, he beckoned me over to look at the menu that was displayed on the shop window - at someone's random eye-level, I presumed, because it certainly wasn't mine.
"We should come here for lunch."
I looked at him semi-incredulously before he explained how close to our office we actually were, having completely lost my bearings wandering through unfamiliar streets in unfamiliar light.
It is strange how distances have a tendency to stretch and warp at night, when the dark localises you and only tells you that you are here, that being here is all that you truly know. And everywhere else is everywhere else, because everywhere else is beyond the bounds which you have been allowed to perceive.
We sat near the door because that was where all of us could conveniently fit in the claustrophobic ... restaurant? Cafe? It was hard to tell - no one was eating. I commented that the music had to be loud in here because by the time people turn up to this joint they were already speaking above their normal volume. He laughed.
The drizzle presently developed into a gentle swirling shower, dancing noiseless patterns under shadowy streetlamps and in front of the lamplights of cars.
Time passed and flowed slowly like some unidentified, unseen liquid, ageing those that it touched. Magic made me shiver.
The taxi driver was from Somaliland and was lovely and friendly. We discussed cultural differences, he questioned me about my work and told me about his mother.
Cruising down a more familiar street, he said, "I've only known you for ten minutes and already we talk like old friends. Strange to think I'll never see you again."
I let the profundity of the notion skim off like a stone skipping across the surface of my deep, dark thoughts. It made ripples which I chose to ignore. Too weary, too tired. I don't want to dwell on sadness or the possibility of sadness. Only the pretense of temporary joy.
[Corresponding dandruff flake][Comment?]
01 December 2001, Saturday, 8:04 PM
Alter ego of dandruff
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