I thought I was going to make a pretty clean break of it over the weekend. Friday I was nursing along a nice head cold and had opened a bottle of Shiraz to help me ease through the snuffle filled nights while the girls stayed with my mother and my man was … with his buddies playing poker? Or he was in his workroom sawing through reinforced cement? There was certainly a roar coming from somewhere downstairs. Anyway. But I just couldn’t get out of wishing my best friend Gail a happy birthday; it only coming along once a year.
So Saturday night I’m in this bar amidst a gaggle of womanhood, paying my respects, buying Gail and sundry drinks, promising myself that I’ll only stay an hour, my sinuses playing merry hell in my head, when I feel a sturdier than normal female presence slowly envelope me. I flag down the bartender for another wine spritzer and flip through the snack menu. A manicured hand reaches around me and takes up my lighter. I turn to the left and a blonde looms, bigger than life, beside me. It takes me ten seconds to wish I were in my bed. It takes me ten minutes chatting with her before I realise he’s a transvestite.
I excuse myself and make my way to the little girl’s room, and once inside turn on the faucet, rest my throbbing forehead against the cold porcelain of the sink and silently count in prime numbers. I get as far at 47 before the door opens and hits me in the side, smacking my forehead against the gurgling faucet. “Thanks for that sister!” I tear off a handful of paper towel and wipe the water from my blouse. Why didn't I stay in bed? …
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