Week ago, Kate messaged. Invited me to a night out on a Wednesday night. It's been months since our last correspondence. I would have figured myself out of the equation by now. But there she was.
I missed it. Viewed it on the Thursday. The day after. Shrugged it off. Had a frolick with my rogue on retail. Couldn't call it fun because it had recently become a tedious routine. An obvious no choice, alternative. Couldn't even leave a word to Nina yet. Or Yeji. People that I miss most that I haven't seen in person. Fucking knobhead, I am.
Replied to Kate on the Monday. We sorted stuff out on the Tuesday, and met on Wednesday. Blues night, we thought.
Weeks and months came and went. This was my first social interaction in a long time. Body got knackered easily at the effort involved with commuting alone, hellish. No trousers available. It's been months, like I said. I don't even have clothes any longer. Had to snatch one that fits, however ghastly. Sky blue denims. The same kind of trousers that got me in trouble in Edinburgh. Holy shit. Calm. It'll fine, I thought. I have no choice.
Moleskine in hand, we go.
Arrived a few minutes early. Tezenis was still there. Melancholy of the image of that name alone stirs so many fragile memories. Every single piece of string in a dark alley reminds me of a bygone time. To a time when true happiness reigned upon me. Spat it out when it tried invading my consciousness. Move on, I said. Move fucking on.
Stood there. Too many people, tourists, knocking about their own business. Flooded by a steady stream of cacophonous foreign tongue blabidi-blabidaing to my ears. Typical Oxford Circus. I realised that the holiday mania was on. Lights everywhere. More nostalgia, more fears. And Winter Wonderland is back, I heard from someone. Such a lovely thought. Get the fuck out.
Held myself there for a moment, unrecognised. She arrived moments later. Leaned over for two kisses on both cheeks. Manners, becoming. Where have I learned these feats of useless habits? We chattered on until we reached the blues pub.
I was undeterred. I wouldn't let my circumstances ruin an otherwise welcome opportunity with my awkwardness. I persevered. Hope she didn't notice. We got on pretty well until others came. First, a French lady, reserved, highly sophisticated and branded, totally out of my league of extraordinarily bland gentleboys. Then another woman of unknown Asian descent with a palpable accent, assumingly of Australian and American mix. Had a gabby blabberhole, spewing tralalas from start to end. Had me on chat mode as well, to be fair.
The guys arrived, both French. One I recognised from before. Was with Kate when everything came together. Amiable fellow, direct and cool. Would make a true friend were it not for my general awkwardness.
The music came on. We could barely catch a note. My ears were drowned in frustration. Haven't had beer for a long time. Wine would make an exception. Bought a bottle right after dad left for the mother country last Saturday. Room has been reduced to a steaming pile of horseshit. Not that it wasn't already before. Now it's a free-for-all, hate-all-you-can buffet.
After the blues, we left for another pub for food. Didn't have any. Couldn't stomach just having chips. Would have gone for another drink had I been dragged into it. These guys were tame as hell though, and probably for a good measure.
By then, plans for Tiger Tiger had been proposed. I've never been to that godawful place. Never saw myself fitting in with that demographic. Never has, never will. The French girl earlier told me it'd be a Spanish night. So we tried to go.
It was then that Kate had to go. Problems from her flat in Acton arose, with landlords and all that. Keys being threatened and used as hostage. She left us. She left me with these strangers. No worries. I'll handle myself. Like I always do. I always do. Saying that makes my world depressing when it's not. What a way to cheer myself up.
Meanwhile, Piccadilly Circus had their own problems to cook up with. The protests. I was there when the march began as I blame them for the rain that came along with it. Protests for that Michael Brown verdict in America. In London. Close to night. Even the French people found it odd and they're the fucking French. The same radical country that's so protest-friendly it hurts.
Two people left then, Kate and that frantic woman. Out with two, in with one. An Italian. In we go then.
An hour or so of self-indulging awkwardness. What was supposed to be what they referred to as Locura Wednesday turned out to become a Fucking Waste of Time Miércoles. Incompatible people running amok trying to find a common ground in an otherwise shitty environment. Utter failure, disgustingly perverse. Our goodbyes couldn't come soon enough.
My time spent in KFC alone having dinner became the highlight of the night. Not much happened, went home with a modicum of thought, a tinge of regret, and a bloody waste of burger and a corncob uneaten.