Drunken behaviour

I’m slumped across the bar, trying to forget, maybe by pretending to shut my eyes, I can probably avoid the scene playing in front of me. But no they have to come here too and disturb me and make me see what I’ve been trying to avoid all evening.

They call themselves my friends. If they are my friends, why aren’t they doing anything to stop her? Why are they letting her get her filthy hands all over him. “He is mine, all mine,” I scream out. “Who is she? Some pretentious, snooty little nobody from some god forsaken city with her farmhouses and talks of dramatics and politics and photography and philosophy. Wasn’t being from the same city not enough to reminiscence over that she had to show that they shared similar interests as well?”

I am rambling all this as they take me staggering across the dance floor. I’m pushed down onto some chairs. Did I just climb those stairs?, I wonder. I laugh at the thought of how awkward it must have been for Miss Manners here. What a beating her public image must have taken hobnobbing with a drunken woman. I then see another familiar face. I call out to him and tell him to get me some more drinks. If Mohammed is not allowed to go to the mountain, the mountain will have to be brought to him. Miss Manners is frantically trying to signal no and our Lover Boy here won’t miss a chance to impress, which means I’m left thirsty. Such a sad little love story theirs is—Mr Popular, extravagant, fun loving, almost ladies man falls for our uptight Ms Right. But who am I to laugh at them. Look at me and my pitiable state!

I get up and join the few who are dancing here. Then I spot them. She’s throwing herself all over him in that barely there dress. Who dresses like that—that cheap little slut. And he’s got his hands on her. Such a two-timing hypocrite.If I didn’t have to recommend her, she never would have met him and we wouldn’t be caught in this unholy mess. She knows what I feel about him, she knows that we are lovers or were till yesterday, yet she’s gone ahead and twisted that proverbial knife in the back. Incredible! Does she think I’m going to stand here and watch. No Ms Boyfriend Snatcher! Not in this lifetime.

I look around wondering what to do—I spot that ashtray. I pick it up and announce my intentions and before I know it I am held back by too many arms. There, now I’ve done it. They all know. Nevertheless they let me be, watching over me in turns. I sit like a statue for what seems like hours. Miss Manners and Lover Boy are on the dance floor and that’s my second surprise of the evening—Miss Manners actually dancing! Though dancing is all not what is doing going by some of the coquettish looks directed at her partner.   

I see my man standing all alone. Where has Ms Snooty gone? I wonder. I spot her dancing with some guys. This is my chance. I go up to him and try to put my arms around and say, “I’ve been waiting to do this all evening” but he pushes me away as discreetly possible and hisses, “You’re drunk.” What a surprise! Two thwarted attempts later, I’m disgusted with his highhandedness. Petulant, I leave him and join the eager arms of another group of boys. Nobody is judging me here, nobody wants to know my past, my present, how many drinks I’ve had, how short my dress is. They are here just like me, looking for a good time.

The evening ends before I know it, the boys want to take me home. Miss Manners stoutly refuses and I want to yell out, “Yay! My defender.” but I’m too far gone for that. She pulls a coat over me and orders Lover Boy to drive me home (he looks like he could strangle me). My last thought before I pass out, remind me to thank her later, and apologise to Lover Boy.