Jeremiah. 5th March 2016.

[This is written realtime, no edits, because tweets, snapchats and instagrams are overrated, and stifling.]

I have only one question: what the fuck are these people wearing?

It feels like everyone here has some sort of identity crisis. Which would bother me, as well, because what the fuck am I doing here? And then I realise, of course, there is a girl involved, and I am at peace, but the question still lingers…

What the fuck are these people wearing?

She looks at me from the distance and smiles; a beautiful, radiant smiles that freezes everything around us, and for that fraction of a second, I am lost for eternity.

She’s beautiful. Impossibly so, and yet so oblivious to it… and so graceful in the crowd that surrounds her. The beauty to my social beast – my self-imposed apathy to the humanness of it all.

She loves people. I like to watch people. Social dynamics fascinate me endlessly; the fleeting connections that make or break relationships, the creation of new friendships and the destruction of lives, both literal and metaphorical. They all blame the alcohol, but really, what is alcohol but an enabler? Liquid courage for thoughts and deeds kept locked up behind broken psyches and split personas?

And then she raises her drink, and I raise mine back. Her, beer. Me, gin and tonic, with a dash of lemon, and ice, which is starting to melt, and in the process, mellowing out my gin, Gilbeys, not as as strong as the Bombay Sapphire I crave right now, but potent (and cheap) enough to get the job done.

What the fuck are these people wearing?

I turn back to watch the DJ. And in the periphery, a hand raises in my direction and a high pitched voice shouts out.

“Jeremiah! Hiiii!!!”

Fuck. What is she doing here? And what the fuck is she wearing?

“Agnes!” I feign interest and walk over. “How have you been? It’s been ages!”

Obligatory hug, apathetic on my part, full blown body contact on hers. I feel her breasts squeezing hard against my chest.

Shit. I should be anywhere but here.

I turn around.

She’s still in the crowd. But she’s watching me now, more concern than worry. Three weeks, and she knows me so fucking well.

She says a few things to the people she’s with, and they nod, stepping aside. She walks over to me, says a courteous hello to Agnes, and leaning over, whispers, “You wanna get out of here?”

And I smile, and whisper back, “You have no idea.”

She takes my hand, as I say my goodbyes to Agnes (who has the fiercest look I have ever seen her command, and is currently giving her the female body scan that says “fuck you, you lucky bitch, I know we don’t know each other, but that should be me, and I hate you right now, but damn, you are gorgeous”) and as we are walking out, she takes one last look around and whispers…

“What the fuck are these people wearing?!”