28 Feb Valentines Bleh’entines
A reflection of Valentine’s Day 2016
You wake up alone in your optimistically double bed. Your unattached body has pivoted itself round the mattress so your head is hanging off the edge on the side while your feet are resting comfortably on your pillow.
You are very single.
You drink coffee in bed because you don’t have a significant other telling you not to leave damp rings on the bedside table.
You examine your unshaven legs while flipping through Tinder with a very similar look on your face to the one you get when you smell off-milk.
You scroll through Facebook and try to ignore your coupled friends and their perfectly edited photos #bae.
You read a news article about an old woman found dead on her bathroom floor, her cats nibbling away at her wrinkled skin.
You think, “f@*k this noise.” You don’t want a gravestone engraved with: “RIP. Her cat will kinda miss her.” You want to be touched by someone. You want someone to shave for. So you find another, half cynical, half hopeful friend and go out on the prowl.
You shave. You put your tiny underwear on, (the pair you keep for special occasions) you brush your hair; you even extend yourself to winged eyeliner, you’re not messing around.
Off you go into the night.
The first bar you hit is a little sparse in terms of talent but you and your mate are unperturbed. You knock back a few vodkas and head to the next bar – one of those dark places with the blue lights.
More vodka. A middle-aged oke who just lost a racing bet zigzags his way over, splashing his brandy on you as he leans a little too close toward you and says, “You shouldn’t be dressed like that, something so see-through.”
You say you need the toilet. Your friend and you split. Next place. Two potentials. You approach only to nearly miss being beaten up by their girlfriends. Bugger. More vodka.
Aces and Spades time. You find yourself accepting a shot of Jäger from a guy celebrating his Matric finals. You sexy dance with him. He asks you what you’re studying. You say you’re on a gap year.
Your friend makes out with the overly tattooed barman. You dance some more. Vodka. Jäger.
You feel hot; this young thing thinks you’re the greatest thing since Dragon Ball Z. You make out with him on the dingy dance floor feeling completely happy with your life choices.
“Where to from here?” he asks suggestively through half-closed eyes. You feel nauseous. You throw up on the pavement, the beat of “Scotty Doesn’t Know” still pumping through your head. Your friend puts her arm around you and steers you into the Uber. Her tattooed barman smiles at you apologetically. You vomit again out the window.
You stumble up the stairs to your bed.
You wake up pivoted. Mascara stains and grubby dirt on your pillow. A childish hicky on your neck. A head full of hangover and a heart full of regret.
You drink coffee in bed and order Nando’s for one. You decide that singleness is the righteous path.
You delete Tinder. You hide annoying couples on Facebook. You buy a couple more pairs of beige underwear.
Your friend messages you: her and the barman want you to come out. You reach for your liquid eyeliner – what can you say, you have an optimistically double bed.