Wednesday, 16 June 2010

Little white skirt

So I kind of fell out with dancing today. Not sure how I feel about this. I stood there, watching sweaty backs and faux couples, just feeling a bit flat about the whole thing. The music was a bit generic or something. What are you doing, he initiated, as I missed steps for the fifth or so time. I'm tired, I laughed though it wasn't a joke. I span too much and failed to cover up my disinterest. I was thinking about boys.

Two days in a row I have had opportunities that I didn't quite take. The words weren't there, the preempted conversations destined never to happen in the right place at the right time. I'm working, I'm two lattes and two black americanos, making great milk, have you got any shows coming up, changing this bin bag, do you want cocoa on the cappuccino, putting stuff in the dishwasher, are you going to the party on Wednesday, maybe we should swap numbers. I'm not myself but I'm most myself.

I shrieked numerous times, the shriek I was told off for at Coffee Union. Everyone got a bit Wednesday loose. A couple on table six looked straight at me for too long, despite not wanting me professionally, as though our acts were offensive and too conscious. Too loose, like we were all testing our bored versions, seeing at what point they bent or broke, at what point we stopped believing in anything we were saying, doing, making. Of course we still believed in the coffee.

The dancing felt transparent and excessive after talking, being, all day. I saw the physical actions and just wanted to be at home writing or reading my book. The physical and mental seem to be leveling out, finally. I decided it was time to go home when the kind older man with glasses, tonight sporting some horrific eye injury-come-operation, told me I looked like I was going to get picked up. Picked up, I thought, I didn't fall, I'm just changing my shoes. Or, maybe this cute white denim mini did me more right than the unrealised conversations could ever have done.

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