Fun fun
A phone call at half ten in the evening.
Having fun, he asked?
Yep, I affirmed chirpily. Fakely so, gritting teeth and scrunching violently the rubbery plant pot leaf between my fingers.
We're missing you, on your birthday!
I waited for it.
I'm missing the bacardi bottle more. You should have asked me.
I asked Mami. She said it's fine.
Ahh, but not me.
No.
I want you to return it. Containing a substantial amount of bacardi.
If there is a substantial amount left, then I will. My teeth were so gritted, it took me half an hour to ungrit them after we'd said bye.
Bye, I said, and he hung up. I returned to the crowd in the kitchen. Ungritting my teeth for just long enough to smile widely at everyone. Standing at the gate in my socks, pacing the puddles, a persistent drunk person approached me every several minutes. You alright? he slurred everytime, half-falling into the bird feeder.
I made cups of tea for the four of us left at four AM, and we laughed weakly. Offended each other half-heartedly and bitchily. Not with the hilarity of earlier when we sank to the carpet with tears streaming down cheeks, shouting sorry sorry sorry and warding off friendly slaps.
Pass me the superglue, my friend mumbled as she fell asleep.
What?
I need to glue the map together. For the people...it's broken.
Crackers, I said as they ate their ice-creams. Do you have salty crackers? They laughed and shook their heads.
I have salty crackers back at my house, I sighed wistfully. I seriously considered walking home to fetch them, until I remembered the time and the rain and the distance and my parents' reaction if I were to turn up on the doorstep, drenched, at 4.30AM. Demanding salty crackers.
(I found a blue plastic packet of salty crackers at the back of the bread bin for breakfast and waved them around accusingly, and with very little energy.)
We woke up after too few hours of sleep by the furious knocking of the post man. He pushed a slip through the letter box: We called when you were out. Recorded delivery for garden shed x 1.
The bacardi bottle I returned untouched, thanks to my brainwave. No inebriated person looks down at the floor, for fear out-of-control spinning happening. Everyone always looks up. So I placed it on the floor under the table. My father welcomed it back with open arms.
Having fun, he asked?
Yep, I affirmed chirpily. Fakely so, gritting teeth and scrunching violently the rubbery plant pot leaf between my fingers.
We're missing you, on your birthday!
I waited for it.
I'm missing the bacardi bottle more. You should have asked me.
I asked Mami. She said it's fine.
Ahh, but not me.
No.
I want you to return it. Containing a substantial amount of bacardi.
If there is a substantial amount left, then I will. My teeth were so gritted, it took me half an hour to ungrit them after we'd said bye.
Bye, I said, and he hung up. I returned to the crowd in the kitchen. Ungritting my teeth for just long enough to smile widely at everyone. Standing at the gate in my socks, pacing the puddles, a persistent drunk person approached me every several minutes. You alright? he slurred everytime, half-falling into the bird feeder.
I made cups of tea for the four of us left at four AM, and we laughed weakly. Offended each other half-heartedly and bitchily. Not with the hilarity of earlier when we sank to the carpet with tears streaming down cheeks, shouting sorry sorry sorry and warding off friendly slaps.
Pass me the superglue, my friend mumbled as she fell asleep.
What?
I need to glue the map together. For the people...it's broken.
Crackers, I said as they ate their ice-creams. Do you have salty crackers? They laughed and shook their heads.
I have salty crackers back at my house, I sighed wistfully. I seriously considered walking home to fetch them, until I remembered the time and the rain and the distance and my parents' reaction if I were to turn up on the doorstep, drenched, at 4.30AM. Demanding salty crackers.
(I found a blue plastic packet of salty crackers at the back of the bread bin for breakfast and waved them around accusingly, and with very little energy.)
We woke up after too few hours of sleep by the furious knocking of the post man. He pushed a slip through the letter box: We called when you were out. Recorded delivery for garden shed x 1.
The bacardi bottle I returned untouched, thanks to my brainwave. No inebriated person looks down at the floor, for fear out-of-control spinning happening. Everyone always looks up. So I placed it on the floor under the table. My father welcomed it back with open arms.
kiwiqueen - 17. May, 18:11