beautiful monsters

After the party

The taxi driver winds down his window and shouts, "I turn around, coming back." You stand on the edge of the curve and wait. It is almost raining. The kind of soft almost mist, almost rain, that doesn’t seem to fall so much as drift through the air. It doesn’t make a pattering noise, in fact, at first you think it doesn’t make any noise at all. Then you listen. It sounds like the bubbles popping in lemonade. You turn up your face and the droplets rest on your checks, your lips. The whole world is shining. The lights melt onto the rain-kissed streets. You are alive. You hold the rain in your heart, like a bright red leaf. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s beautiful, and you’re glad to be alive.

The taxi driver swings around the corners and races through the streets like a kid with a new toy. You wonder if you’ll be alive for much longer.

You sneeze most of the way home, and in your mind you throw suspicious looks at the cat.

Walking up the steps, you feel as though you are drunk. You haven’t drunk anything, except orange juice and water. Perhaps drunkenness is contagious. You try to let yourself in without waking anyone else up. The strap of your bag hits your flatmate’s door, you trip over the phone lead and knock over a glass. So far, so good. You creep into your room and turn on your computer. WHIRRRRRRRR! BEEP BEEP! You try to muffle your computer with a pillow, but it’s no use.

You log on. You check. Yes, you’re the first. You breathe a sigh of relief. Then you start to feel the pressure building. The first entry must be clever. It must be amusing and imaginative. You can’t really do clever, amusing or imaginative, but you want to be the first so you write anyway.

Cicadas were thrown across the room. Crayfish were kissed. There was dancing, and scary 80’s music. There were lots of discussions about the war, and about Bolsheviks, and offending people. There were strange conversations with people who’d read your blog and so knew lots about you, and yet you knew nothing about them. Kim Hill was mentioned, but not as much as Buffy. There were pistachio nuts and alcoholic beverages and freshly baked cakes. It was a good party.

You wonder if Blogapalooza will ever be the same now that you have danced with all the participants.

You count the hours until Sunday school. There are not enough. You vaguely remember saying you were going to have an early night…

Posted by Fionnaigh at March 29, 2003 10:38 AM