A Friendly Rendezvous

This post is a follow up by Mark Clarke to the popular Friendly Drinks story that he wrote for Shortfolio back in January this year...

Ok, so what now? The train is quite literally leaving the station. And so am I.

I've been thinking about this meeting for, like, the last five days now. I've been trying to decide what I want to say to him for five fucking days now and here I am, closing on these turnstiles, still as clueless as I was when...oh shit...where did I put that ticket?

Right, this is going to take a more thorough search than first thought so let's move out of this queue. Don't you sigh at me, you dick. How much of a hurry can you possibly be in that this six second delay to your day has put you out? Especially since you cruised up the escalators, you fat prick.

God I hate digging through this thing. How much of the crap in this handbag do I ever even use? Better safe than sorry I suppose. Oh, there it is. Right where I've never once put it before. That makes sense. I didn't even know it had that pocket.

Ok, take a breath, calm yourself, regain your composure. You're back on street level now and the pub's just round here - but I'll just take a seat here for a second. There's no rush. He's probably not even there yet and this is definitely not a scenario I want to approach without sufficient nicotine in my system.

Light, draw deep, exhale slowly...it's not helping even a little bit. How did I get myself into this situation? How do I always seem to get myself into this situation? I like him - that's not even the issue, of course I like him - but...but there's always that 'but'.

If only we could just go back, go back to when we just liked each other. Before...

'You got a light, sweetheart?'

'Uh, yeah, sure.'

This is as good a time as any to head on. I get my lighter back and head round the corner. There it is. Just head right in there now, suck it up.

It's not too busy, shouldn't be too hard to...there he is. And he's spotted me. No way out now. Do I want a way out? His eyes are wide and he actually gulped as he stood up to greet me. Good grief, who gulps nowadays outside of cartoons? God, he really can be adorable every now and then. I kiss him and step back, his voice cracks slightly;

'Hi' he warbles.

Ok, deep breath. Here goes.




By Mark Clarke

Friendly Drinks

Ten minutes late as I step off the bus. Right. That probably means I’ll only be waiting about fifteen minutes. Could be worse. Might as well enjoy a cigarette now before I get to the pub. Or should I check in there first? Probably best to check first. Could head off unnecessary problems if the unthinkable has happened and she’s here on time.

Screech of brakes. Jesus, where did that car come from? Apologetic wave, consolatory jog out of the way. Let’s see what we can do about not getting killed today shall we? I’ve got to wake up. Snap out of this. Focus. Right, there’s the pub. Pat the pockets. All present and accounted for. Let’s have a look-see at the money situation. Excellent, a couple of crisp Darwins and change, so no hunting for the elusive non-rip-off cash machine and no card at the bar. Everyone’s happy.

Entering a pub just hasn’t been the same since the ban. All so sterile and stark. Time was when all these fugly-ass people would be shrouded in acrid mystery. Still, no use crying over spilt milk. Focus on the recon. No hidden corners to check so we can just let loose Meerkat-style, crane neck, slight tip-toes, don’t go nuts. Don’t make eye contact randomers, nothing to see here, I’m searching for a specific person. Ok, she’s not here yet. To the bar.

Let’s check the taps. Ah, that’s the one. Friendly tone. Don’t strike up any small talk, you’re too distracted not to end up seeming rude. Cheers, pay, cheers for the change, take your seat. Maybe I should have sat at the one with the paper on it so I could pretend to read and not look like such a loser. Too late now. You’re sitting; it’d just look plain weird to change from one empty table to another. Just do what you always do, take out your phone and delete old text messages.

Ok, that’s that done. Where is she? Stop drinking so fast. What am I doing here anyway? What’s the best that can come of this? ‘I’ve made a mistake’ she’ll say, ‘I want something more.’ And then what? You cave like the dick that you are and experience two more weeks of emotional yoyo hell. Fantastic. Or you could grow a pair and say all the things you wanted to say to her when the dreaded ‘Let’s just be friends’ ball-shriveller was wheeled out last time. Or, more accurately, the things you wanted to say twenty minutes after that happened, as you muttered and fumed your way home.

Crap, there she is. God, she looks good. Stop that. Ok, rise to greet her. What’s going to happen here? Kiss? Hug? Go for the hug. There it is, there’s hugging but she kissed you on the cheek on entry. No matter, you walk away looking daddy-cool. Great. Score one for the hero. So here it is, game face, friend smile, let’s go.

‘Hi...’

By Mark Clarke 2008