Drunken Love

She was an anonymous pretty thing to watch.

Her short bobbed brunette hair hung just beneath her silver forest tree earrings.

She looked up and smiled at me as she chewed on a French fry.

I sucked my fry looking at her steady, and cheeky, across the McDonalds table.

Within a month we were sharing extra large fries together, and walking home hand in hand, skipping puddles in synchronicity.

She was impulsive and I didn’t mind. Her carefree attitude made me feel young again, and I didn’t mind at first holding her hair back as she threw up after one too many Vodka’s down the pub.

We would sit by the bar on Friday nights drinking and making funny faces to each other across our glasses. Then the music would come on and she wanted to dance. She always wanted to dance, whether I did or not.

Then one night after a hard day, I didn’t feel like dancing but she did. 

I sat at the bar on a stool and watched her dancing to the loud music, fingers rubbing through her hair, twirls and the occasional point towards me with a curl of her fingers. Trying to entice me to get off my stool and join in.

Tiredness prevented me though, and I remained the bartender’s best customer, as I downed doubles, my eyes slowly drooping.

Then a bouncer walked past and looked at her. I didn’t expect to be jealous, but when she looked at him and smiled. I tasted jealousy in my whisky.

Watching her dance with him, with the occasional smile at me making me feel more tired than angry. 

Why was she trying to do this to me. I didn’t need the hassle or the tug from doing the obvious.

They didn’t touch or grind. It was just the point of her trying to wind me up that upset me.

Did she want me to fight him, or push in and dance with her. 

I didn't want to do either, I just left.

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