‘How do you like my cardigan?’ he asks with a surreptitious furrow; ‘It’s nice’ she replies although she fucking hates it. ‘I think it looks like porridge’ he goes, and she grins like an idiot. Batting her overly large eyelids and letting her gaze fall over the interior of this place, she soaks it in and feels slightly repulsed, but why, she couldn’t tell you. The inevitability might be it. She loves the outdoors and yet everything of interest in the city is placed indoors, for the comfort of the viewer she muses. Everything rests on something else and has its place in the categories of man, which we assembled to make order of our shambolic lives.
‘Do you want another drink?’
She flicks back in to the conversation and tries to make sense of it all in a split second, refuse or say yes and carry it off, it all seems a bit pointless now. But whatever is happening she is in it and one can’t pause the game and resume it later, as much as one would like the option to. A nod suffices. God he bores her. Everyone does who wants to get her drunk. What a chore for the little girl in women’s curves who amuses men like a glow worm in a jar, their interest like her life is always short lived. Cackles of laughter spill over from a nearby table of hyenas in low cut tops with cleavage dripping out like clotted cream. From the corner of her eye she sees once-dapper-in-their-youth but now past it middle aged fathers becoming blotchy and making sideways glances at her own jumpered physique. Maybe the cardigan on him isn’t that bad. Returning with the drinks he squeezes up to her non-menacingly and asks a bunch of questions, and whilst he does so she sips the drink and decides to have sex with him.