DurAnorak (duranorak) wrote,
DurAnorak
duranorak

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Lies, damn lies, and "Having a great night".

"Having a great night" is one of those lies that we tell ourselves, before we tell other people. Like "One more won't make any difference" or "I was just about to leave anyway".

I did a lot of this tonight. I was so determined to have a great night, and some of it turned out that way. Still, though.
Having a great night, while drunken punks pour beer down my back - and I really do mean down my back; it went through the corset lacing.
Having a great night, while I'm called insane by someone I've never met before.
Having a great night, while I listen patiently to words I've heard a hundred times before that don't hurt any less this time round.
Having a great night, while people stand on me on the dancefloor.
Having a great night, while I try to hold someone's attention and see clearly the trajectory of my miserable failure. Damn it.

To those of you I saw who made my night good : thank you. I promise I'll namecheck you tomorrow.

Right now, though :

It's cold here, the kind of cold you don't notice until it's sharp under your skin, twisting painfully around your bones and making you wish you could have brought a coat. You hurt from walking, too, after what seems like hours of little dark diagonal streets with no names anywhere to be seen. He said you'd get lost, with that sneer that's so arrogant it's almost beautiful. And he was right, you did. But you've found the place now.
You see him immediately, a short dark figure at the other end of the road. He's leaning easily against the wall, bent over slightly, looking down at the pavement, but you're fairly sure he's noticed you. He doesn't miss much.
He looks up when you come nearer, unsmiling; it drowns your own nervous smile of greeting. "You're late," he says quietly, and now there's a flicker of that arrogance in his face again. "Yes," you sigh, "I'm sorry. I got lost." You realise he's got his pocket-watch in his left hand; he knows you're late, and exactly how late you are. As he slips it back into his waistcoat pocket you shiver, not entirely from the cold. You're sure he wouldn't...but you're not sure, you've never been sure. Not since hearing his voice wrap itself lovingly, silkily, around words describing the kind of violence that he knows you want. After that, you just couldn't be sure.


And now I must sleep.

E.
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