Friday, October 2, 2009

The Cute One

What's it with me and drunk people? Do I look like I can take care of them? Maybe I do, because apparently I can finally look after myself.

I don't feel comfortable being the prettiest girl in the room. It doesn't say much about the beauty present. But it's okay 'coz you're clearly the most lovely. No need to be drunk to come talk to me, I can speak with sober people.

So you're British, but you don't look British. And are your eyes really greenish or are those contact lenses? You're out in clubs almost every night. Sorry, that's not me. But you're nice and this meeting's sucking anyway.

My legs hurt and you're drunk. And we have to leave the bar to go to the club. We are obviously a lousy combination. It's no wonder we are lost only five minutes later.

I don't mind. Do you? I get lost so often that I don't really care anymore. I just ask for directions. You look happy and definitely not worried. But it may be the alcohol. Your friend keeps calling you:

"Who's the girl with you?"
"Maria."
"The cute one?"
"The cute one."

He calls and calls and calls again. And he's not very useful 'coz we are still lost somewhere in Soho. And you're hungry and have a craving for Subway, but you keep stopping in every bar and restaurant anyway. I have to remind you of your craving. And you get overly excited over a Costa Café (their hot chocolate sucks, so I won't be their costumer again) and I learn that you've been wanting to go to the toilet for ages.

You go inside and you don't buy anything and you go the wrong way. And I have to go grab you and take you the right way 'coz I don't even know your name. But we're lucky and the lady there is very nice and she doesn't even care that I have a stolen beer glass on my hand and that you are not on your finest. She teaches me the way to Tottenham Court Road, but I know that I can only learn the first half of it. It's enough for now.

My throat is sore and my voice is huskier than usual, so I don't speak much. We have a silent agreement, so it's alright. I lead the way after we leave Costa and you're surprised that I know more than you do despite being here for only a week and a half. I've been looking at you for almost an hour and it's the first time I -see- your smile and it's the first time I realize there's a sweetness to you. I haven't been paying attention, you know? Because of you, I'm breaking a promise: I should be home already.

"How can you possibly know this place more than I do if I've lived in Central London for 3 years?"

You're drunk, baby. And finally there's a Subway and you totally go out of your way to get there. And you buy a 30-inch sandwich with lots of meat and then you buy me a cookie. I can't thank you enough. But you'll never know that. Kindness. It will always be my weakest link.

I ask directions again, but the Subway guy isn't the best GPS. There's always someone else. And so we finally get to Tottenham Court Road. You look cute, embarassed because you ate your sandwich like it was the end of the world. You don't have to worry, I don't care about that. I'm just lost inside my own head and for me you're only the nice girl I'm stuck with. The nice girl that has nothing to do with me. The nice girl that probably will have forgotten me after the alcohol goes away.

It's a 10 minute walk from Tottenham Court Road to the club. I'm tired and I don't really want to go there, but I can't leave you alone, can I? So I walk, slowly, behind you. You're taking the lead now 'coz you know the name of the street.

We finally get there and I don't know what to feel. There's a queue. It's lame to queue for a club. But what can we do? Your friend's in there.

You ask me if I'm leaving after you get in and I say yes, but then I regret it and say I'll just take a look around. It's free entrance, so why not? We're at the door and they're searching everyone's clothes and purses for whatever. British people are paranoid. You're clean, you get in.

I have the stolen beer glass. I want it. I kept it for a friend or for myself, I don't know yet. I can't go inside with the glass. So I look at you and you're already going downstairs, you know you're not lost anymore.

I'm sorry, but I prefer the glass.

Sorry for not saying goodbye. I have been running all my life. Hope you're safe now.

MJNuts

4 comments:

Blaze said...

No início ainda pensei que já tivesses uma crush... mas depois reflecti melhor.
Pessoas bêbadas divertem-nos, mas conseguem mesmo ser chatas XD Vê lá isso e finalmente li aventuras vossas aí XD

Pintas nos Olhos said...

Gosto tanto do texto! É tipo uma crónica ou um bom começo de um livro ;)

Isa said...

Maria, you're quite the heartbreaker! *loves it*

Stay away from the monster's catwalk and just enjoy the horizontal mambo ^_^

Aurora said...

Há muito tempo que não sei nada teu, mas... gostei do texto, e vê lá se dás notícias! ;)