Followers

Saturday, 9 July 2011

GIRLS' NIGHT OUT

'Never again!' you say.
'Never,
never,
never again
will I bare my Soul,
give my all to a man.
Because what does he do with my precious gift?
He uses it against me,
turns it into some grotesque
piranha-like thing
that insidiously eats away
at my identity
until I no longer recognise myself!'

Here, the tears begin to flow,
so I fight my way through
the Saturday night crowds
to the bar
and buy you yet another vodka.

You down it in one,
almost choking yourself,
then slam the empty glass
down onto the table.
How it remains in one piece, I'll never know!
A little calmer now
(or more than a little inebriated),
'What is wrong with me, Ygraine?' you ask,
mascara cascading down your cheeks.
'He was so perfect.
We were so perfect together.
He was my ultimate sexy Adonis.
All I ever wanted was "Happy ever after".
Is that really too much to ask?
He said it was what he wanted too.
Why, then, do I get the distinct impression
that all I'm fit for these days is:
clearing his hair from the shower plug hole;
ensuring the fridge is well stocked with lager
just in case his mates spring a surprise visit;
and gathering his dirty laundry
from its increasingly familiar place, namely
strewn all over the bedroom floor?
And now,
just as I honestly believed
things couldn't get any worse,
he didn't even notice I'm wearing a new dress
or that I've coloured my hair!'
You begin to wail like a banshee.
'I've been demoted from object of desire,
to invisible drudge!' you scream in frustration,
your face turning a deeper shade of purple.
People are beginning to stare.
Feeling embarrassed,
I practically carry you to the Ladies.
It seems I may have over-prescribed the medicinal vodka!

An hour or so has passed now.
With makeup re-applied
and ego bandaged,
you are just about ready to face the world again.
After an enormous amount of coaxing
I've finally managed to talk you into
giving men a wide berth for a while
(for my sake as much as yours).
You've sent him a text,
making it crystal clear
that you're no longer prepared to be his doormat
and you never want to see him again.

Heads held high,
we stride up to the bar
(well, one of us does
the other still needs a bit of support!)
and order the most expensive,
most exotic cocktails we can invent
- as a kind of celebratory toast
to your newly single status.
Now we hurl ourselves onto the dance floor,
determined to salvage the rest
of what was intended to be
a fun girls' night out.

Leaving you for a few moments
to go and finish my drink,
I return to find you
hanging on the arm of some guy,
gazing adoringly into his eyes.
Suddenly catching sight of me,
a huge smile spreads across your face.
'Ygraine, come and meet Dave!' you slur.
And I notice his hand
caressing your right buttock.

I am speechless!!

4 comments:

  1. I like how this could be taken for a self-dialogue and your choice of the name "Dave" plays well too, meaning "beloved".

    The ending, though not an end, is but the hope of a friend or self, continuing the search for "happily ever NOW".

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  2. Thanks, Gnome. You have taught me something here. I had no idea "Dave" meant "beloved"! Maybe there is something more psychological and personal going on with me than I realised!!:-)

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  3. *chuckles* I think we all have/had a friend like this! I have to wonder how she felt the day after?
    A good read!

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  4. Thanks Rose.
    Apart from the hangover, you mean?
    I don't think she remembered much about it!!!

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