littledrinker

I was rummaging around my hard drive this morning – I should really get out of the house more – and found this little bit of writing from a few years ago. It must be quite old, because there’s no reference to Twitter or iPhones. And I’m pretty sure the club they go to closed about 5 years ago…

It’s not based on anything real, and all similarities to reality are a coincidence. Enjoy.

THE DATE

Fuck, fuck, fuck. The little green winking clock on the cooker was telling me I should have left eleven minutes ago. Actually, it was saying I should have left fourteen minutes ago, but it was three minutes fast. It was three minutes fast because I had no idea how to change it, and it was winking at me because it had been winking ever since I’d tried to change it two months ago. I’m sure the knowledge required was contained within the manual, but it had never bothered me before. But now it was taunting me. Winking in a knowing way. The shine of the bean-juice flecked hob mocking me.

I contemplated looking for the manual again, wondering where it was that I kept all the important documentation that came with the house. It was in the bedroom, of that I was pretty sure. Or in the lounge, in that faux-leather (fleather? Leatherique?) box. Wink – twelve minutes. Or, rather, fifteen. Come on, get your act together.

I walked from the kitchen back to the bedroom. The contents of my wardrobe were displayed meaningfully on the bed / floor area. I was on my third iteration of essentially the same outfit already. Jeans, t-shirt, cardigan, Converse. I was nothing if not reliable. Except when it came to time-keeping, obviously. I cast my mind back to the previous weekend when I was in the club – had I been wearing this exact same outfit? Would anyone remember? Do I remember?

My mobile click-clicked a text. It was from him – “running five minutes late, soz x”. Fine.He was late too. Although, if he was running five late, and I was already twelve late, he would still be waiting for me for seven minutes. See, that GCSE maths did come in handy after all.Seven minutes was a fine amount of time to wait. And if you’re willing to wait seven, why not ten? I stripped off my top half, and threw the t-shirt into the washing basket where I’d dug it out five minutes previously. A quick squirt of Fabreze and it was as good as new. Kind of. A squirt of aftershave under each armpit had been the cherry on the BO cake.

I pulled on another t-shirt. Was this the one I’d put on first of all? Followed by the grey cardigan which , despite for the past couple of years being fine for young folk to wear, had gradually trickled back into old-man fashion. My dad had one. Not great news.

I stepped back into the lounge to pick up phone, fags, Oyster card, change, lighter, cash, keys and chewing gum. Where the fuck was I supposed to put all this? I refused to take a bag with me on a date. Or any night out. I am NOT a woman. And it was too warm for a jacket. I stuffed everything into my jeans and made for the door. But the sound of of babies falling over and badly canned laughter caught my attention and I found myself hypnotised by You’ve Been Framed as one kid smashed his head into a birthday cake.

Why are the parents filming this other kid sitting peacefully in his high-chair? Do they know he has an inner ear infection and is about to topple over any moment? Will the £250 paid for every clip be enough to cover putting wheelchair access into the house when crippled little Bobby can’t get back up? Still, was funny though wasn’t it.

Another mobile-made clickety click brought me back to reality, and into a state of time-panic. I read the text on the way out of the door. Aah, it was Pete. “Good luck on the date babes. In the Brewers if it all goes tits up.” Good old Pete. Always there. Meaning always there for me. And, more literally, always there in the Brewers – gay South London’s answer to the Queen Vic. It’s shit, but when there’s literally no where else to go…

So my plan B was in place, should plan A not go to, erm, plan. But I had to get to plan A first. The Victoria line was quicker. And the walk to the tube took the exact amount of time it took me to smoke a cigarette. It was like baby Jesus was smiling down on me, blowing smoke rings.

I arrived at the tube without incident. My mind had been crammed full for the walk – inhale, exhale, what would I say when I arrived? Tap the ash, am I wearing the right outfit? Flick the butt, do I go in for a kiss when I get there? Check trainers for dog poo – old habit. I once walked a rancid dollop through a mate’s parent’s house and all over the cream carpet. But I’m sure the Underground people wouldn’t notice another foul smelling stain on the floor, would they?

…

Summer had been creeping in, and the days were unpleasantly hot, with the nights feeling pleasantly cool. Still, in keeping with logic, the underground tunnels managed to stay about 20 degrees hotter than the outside temperature. Thankfully, my deodorant kept the old under-pits dry, and I could dab away the excess beading on my forehead. If I was a dainty lady, I might say that I’m ‘glowing’. I’m not a dainty lady. I was fucking drenched. I caught my reflection in the curved window opposite. It made my head look about four feet long and two inches thick. I looked terrible. Nothing I could do about it now.

I fought my way off the train at Oxford Circus. The corridors and escalators were crammed with people and their bags. I hadn’t bought anything new for ages and hated everyone who’d splurged. Apart from that girl walking towards me who looked like she needed to go shopping more than I did – what was she wearing? Was that trendy nowadays? Did I just say trendy? Am I that old? I’m not that old, by the way. Well, I guess that depends who you ask. I’m 29-years-old. 30 later in the year and I’m kind of not bothered by it. Lots of people go a bit mental, write lists of things they must achieve but possibly never will. I’m constantly disappointing myself so have no need to write a list to feel bad. I’ll be turning 30 in the same manner I turned 20 – drunk.

I hit street level and, thank god, a cool breeze hit me. I lit another cigarette – I know, I know, but I was nervous – and turned towards Soho. Another window offered my reflection, this time in a clothes shop that was closing up for the night. It was a massive improvement – I looked lean and my hair looked cool. My head looked almost normal again. Still, this window might be equally warped and I could still be freakishly odd-looking. Maybe there’ll be another mirror on the way. I checked my watch. Still running late. Eek. My lateness stressed me out. Other people’s lateness makes me livid with a rage so purple and black I want to snap bones and crush skulls and stamp on kittens and clench my fists and shake them at the sky screaming “WHY???” Still it doesn’t stop me from being late for almost everything. Yeah, I’m a hypocrite.

Anyway, I’d arrived and surprised even myself by not being as late as I’d thought. 12 minutes, to be precise. Which meant he would have been here for 7 minutes. I crushed the cigarette under my foot, popped a mint in my mouth, ruffled my hair – but not too much – and walked in.

The bar was already busy. More shopping bags. Boys in skinny jeans, checked shirts and skinnier than was necessary ties as far as the eye could see. Which wasn’t very far – it was a small bar. I let my slightly short-sighted eyes take in the bar hoping for a glimpse of the date, when suddenly it dawned on me. Would I recognise him when I saw him? How would I know if I’d seen him if I couldn’t remember what he looked like? I was incredibly drunk when we’d met the week before. Incredibly drunk. Offensively so. Well, not so offensively that he didn’t want to kiss me at the time, or even see me again this weekend.But maybe he was also incredibly drunk. In fact, I knew he was incredible drunk – we’d had three shots of sambucca together. And two Jack Daniel’s (with ginger ale – I’m no purist). Even if he hadn’t been drinking all night, which I’m pretty sure he had, he would have been drunk by then. Maybe he wouldn’t recognise me? We could both be stood in the bar, right next to each other, waiting for each other, standing RIGHT NEXT TO EACH OTHER, and not know. That would be awful. I decided to focus on looking for people who looked like they were looking for people. Still no one. But maybe he wasn’t looking for me – why would he if he didn’t know who to look for? Oh God. Maybe if I rang him, he would have to pick up his phone. I would see him answer his phone. Yes. Call him.

I pulled the phone from my pocket just as it vibrated and tick-tocked again. It was him. Shit. Had he seen me looking right through him? He doesn’t know I’m short-sighted. I could say I was almost blind. Yes, that was my excuse. “Dead sorry – train’s delayed. Be there in 10.” Yes! Thank the lord. I was saved. I ordered a beer – bottled, not draught. I can’t drink pints. Too gassy. And, also, there was an incident when I was 19 after seven pints of wife beater, a plate of beans on toast and my parents. It still makes me shudder now. I took the drink outside, found a table near the door, sat down and lit a cigarette. And relax…
I would normally try and cut down the ciggie intake on a first date. I say that like I’ve been on loads of them. I haven’t. But I think it’s nice to make a good first impression. But as we’d already snogged, been drunk, and chain-smoked half a dozen cigarettes with each other last time we met, I kind of thought I had a green light to be seen smoking on arrival.Besides, it looked cool and all my friends did it.

About 6 minutes later I was concentrating on grinding the end of my cigarette into the pavement – there were no ashtrays, sorry – when a pair of baby blue Converse appeared next to mine, and the owner asked for a light. I started digging in my pocket and looked up – it was him. Thank god – I recognised him. And he was cute. Handsome. Sod it, he was hot. What a fucking relief. I stood up and he took half a step back. Not a full step, though, and I ended up in much closer proximity to him than I’d anticipated. Flashes of us kissing like school kids on the dance floor the previous weekend flashed through my mind and I immediately became sheepish. Not the most attractive thing to become. I sort of leaned forward, half for a hug, partly for a kiss, maybe for a cheek brush and he came in towards me at an awkward angle and some horrible coagulation of all three possibilities occurred. We both blushed.

“Hi.” That was me. Excellent opening gambit. I could vaguely remember the previous weekend. We were creased up most of the evening. We were hilarious. We were on fire.Now? Now all I could do was squeak out “hi”.

“Hi.” That was him. This situation needed rescuing. Quickly. I did the only thing I knew.

“Shall we get a drink?” He smiled. Great smile. Lovely teeth. “Come on then. My round.”

We walked in. I weaved my way through the crowd of trendy boys, glancing behind me to make sure he was still there. Every time I turned back he flashed a smile at me. He was nice. Nice eyes. Lovely skin. I totally fancied him. At the bar, I arched up onto my tip toes – I’m only short – and gave my best smile to the harassed barmaid.“Jack Daniels and ginger ale and a…” My mind went blank. What had he been drinking last week? We had a bit of everything. I turned back.

“I’ll have the same as you.”

That’s it. I was in love. “Two Jack and ginger please.”

…

The bar was loud, so we had to get close to hear each other. The talk flowed as easily as the drinks did, and I remembered why we’d had so much fun the weekend before. He touched my shoulder a couple of times, and I kept finding myself just staring at him, smiling, as he recounted some story from a drunken night long ago. Every couple of drinks, we’d pop outside for a cigarette and to cool down away from the sweaty throng, and talk about the collection of freaks, weirdos and wonderful folk who streamed past us on the street. He was funny – really funny. And he thought I was funny too. At least, he had the decency to laugh at my crap jokes.

The sun finally went down behind the Soho pubs and knocking shops (how quaint) and the sky went that nice midnight blue colour that only happens around ten o’clock. So why did I call it midnight blue? Ten o’clock blue. I checked my watch and realised that my vision was a little hazy. In a nice way though. and because I’m short sighted my vision’s always a little bit hazy anyway. But this was more of a mildly unfocused daze.

“Do you want to head somewhere else?”

“Yes please.” He was very polite.

After we necked the last of our drinks, he took me by surprise by taking me by the hand and pulled me through the crowd to the door. Holding hands is odd. It kind of makes you feel all goofy and weird, and warm and hyper-aware of just how clammy your palms are all at the same time. I think I went a bit red. I felt like all the people in the bar were looking at us. It wasn’t a gay bar, and I’m sure some of the guys would have rolled their eyes. I’m sure a couple of girls made “aren’t they sweet” faces at us. I’m sure I smiled a bit sheepishly.

Outside, the streets were now packed with quasi-, semi- and totally drunk revellers. In this part of London, they were mostly gay men, but still gangs of women tottered around in ludicrous heels and an angry pissed bloke from out of town hurled inappropriate abuse at a drag queen, unaware that he was outnumbered by several thousand to one. The drag queen just hurled back some caustic abuse, raising a laugh from a gang – a pack? Pride? – of bears drinking pints of cider outside one of the oldest establishments in the area. That soon shut him up.

By this point we’d had out fair share of booze, and the night started taking on that kind of mystical quality that the best drunken nights do. It became just a loud noise of sound and talking and lights and money changing hands over bars. A cocktail bar was the first port of call. It was hideously expensive, but maybe we were both trying to show off a little bit.There was definitely at least one mojito, and something that was set on fire by the barman before we drank them. I got a severely watery mouth instantly and thought I was going to puke. Thankfully I managed to swallow it back and suggested popping outside for a cigarette.

It was then that we saw the first shocking thing that night.

“Oh my God…”

“What?” I was checking my hair in the window. I turned round to see what he was looking at.

“They’re doing two for one cocktails in that bar that used to be Element.” He was stood with a flyer in his hand. The insanely skinny boy in a luminous green, cropped t-shirt was handing them out as he minced down the street.

“The one with the nice upstairs-y bit?”

“Yeah.” He passed me the flyer and looked right at me. “Shall we go?” He had a very mischievous look about him. It was pretty hard to say no. So I didn’t.

…

Walking through Soho was always an… experience. Lots to see. More to avoid. We cut through an alley where too-old hookers in doorways called out to us. I politely declined, and he just waved to them and put his arm around my shoulders. He was obviously drunk. I mean, two public displays of affection the past hour? Maybe he just fancied me. Actually, he was drunk. He tripped over his foot and we went stumbling towards a shop window. It was the bookstore that had a huge neon sign in the doorway saying “GAY VIDEOS AND BOOKS DOWNSTAIRS”. There was a helpful flashing arrow, too.

I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I was just trying to give my body an extra few minutes to catch up before sinking more booze in the next bar. “Come on – let’s go in.”

“In there?”

“Yeah – I’ve never been in!”

“Whatever!” He punched my arm and laughed. “This is where you get all your dirty videos.” I shot him my most winning smile. Which, to be honest, most probably looks like a constipated grimace. But it worked. We went in. Straight to the basement. And honestly, I’ve never been in there before.

Another point in his favour – he was really immature. Excellent. We were like giggling schoolgirls down there. The man behind the counter didn’t appreciate it. The nervy mac-wearing guys perusing the books didn’t much like it either. We straightened our faces as much as we could and looked round the shelves.

I’d made my way round from the DVDs to the books – I was looking at some very explicit comic books. Is it wrong to fancy a comic book character? Possibly. Although I had a crush on Aladdin when I was younger. I was trying to work out just how wrong it was when he came over.

“Is it too early in the date to suggest this for later?” He handed me a DVD. ‘Pissy Pants 3’. I snorted so hard I thought I was going to hurt my brain. He cracked up and I couldn’t keep noise from escaping. I grabbed the DVD from his hand and put it back on the shelf.

“Come on,” I nodded over in the direct of the miserable looking queen behind the counter. “I think they hate us in here.”

We ran up the stairs together. We didn’t make a purchase.

…

The bar that used to be Element, and was then something else. Was now something else entirely. Well, they’d redecorated. To be honest, neither of us could remember what it looked like before this. Or before that. But they did make great cocktails. Very great. Very great? I was drunk.

“Very great? How drunk are you?”

“I’m not that bad!” I lied a bit. “I’m just a bit giddy. How’s yours?”

He held up his glass – it was almost empty so I guessed that he was impressed. “Really nice. And half price! Does that mean we can have another two?”

“I think that’s exactly what it mean. I’ll get them.” We’d been sat on an awkwardly straight-backed sofa shaped like a huge pair of lips. My knees cracked when I stood up – almost 30 – and II weaved through the crowd of overly-perfumed men laughing, joking and flirting outrageously with each other. A couple of them made eyes at me. Well, I think they did. I’m pretty terrible at working out when someone’s flirting with me or when they’re just trying to see what’s going on behind me. I played it safe and kept a mildly inane grin on my face.

I reached the bar and squeezed in between all the taller people. Which means I squeezed in between everyone.

Much to the disappointment of everyone around me, I caught the barman’s eye easily and ordered two drinks. I had a purple coloured thing. And I bought him something made with gin and loads of fruit. I paid and left the two pound coin as a tip. I was feeling flush. I’d regret it when it got to the end of the month and I was living on non-brand beans and toast. Cheap white toast. With loads of butter. Actually, it doesn’t sound too bad. He could keep the two pounds.

I bustled back through the crowd, but when I turned into the little back bit there was a man sat on n my half of the lips and it wasn’t me. I held back for a second. Tried to work out what my chances might be if I had to defend my date’s honour. Or if my date chose this new suitor over me, who would win in a three-way fight between us all. Or if I could just neck both drinks, subtly grab my coat and fuck off. Was this guy better looking than me? I couldn’t really tell. They were on the edge of my poor vision. He looked okay though. Nice shirt, actually. I was debating escape strategies when my date looked in my direction. Then he smiled. Then he pointed. And the other guy looked. He sort of smiled. Said something. Got up. Walked towards me and smiled properly this time.“Lucky boy.” He said.

“Him, or me?” I said.

He winked at me and walked on by. I took my seat and handed him a drink. He flashed another toothy white grin. “I think he was trying to chat me up.”

“I think he was. Did he succeed?”

“Does it look like he succeeded?”

“Not just yet.”

“Not just ever – I told him I was with someone.” More toothy grinning.

I looked around the room. “Really? You are? Who?” I was still looking around the room when the bottom lip of the sofa sank beneath me a little. Then a hand was on my knee. I turned.His face was so close it took me by surprise, but before even I had chance to register the surprise on my face he planted both his lips on mine. Lips, on lips, on lips. It was closed mouth. No rancid tonguing each other on the tacky lip sofa. Not just yet. Maybe a couple more cocktails. But, for now, closed lips. Strong. He put his hand behind my head ever so gently. He pulled away just as my lips turned up into a smile. He looked right at me with his big brown eyes and said, “I’m with you.”

Fuck. I thought I was going to die.

“Thought so.” I was a bit shocked still and couldn’t think of anything massively witty to say in return. This was a good date.

…

Two more cocktails in and the bar was rammed. We’d both been to the toilet twice – too much information? And had another couple of cigarettes on the pavement outside. I’d been asked if I had a lighter twice. I lit both cigarettes but kept hold of my lighter. It was an heirloom – a tiny bic that I’d managed to keep hold of for nearly three weeks. That must be some sort of record? If everyone did that, lighter companies around the world would go broke. It was nearly Cinderella time and that meant it was make or break. Questions needed answering.

If we left now, we could make a club and not have to queue too much. Or we stay for a couple more and call it a night at one o’clock. But then that meant the very awkward ‘your house or my house’ chat. That’s if it was heading that way. I was pretty sure it was heading that way. But I fancied a drink. And a dance. Oh, God I was drunk if I was ready for dancing.

Over the noise, I shifted my weight forward on the lips – the sofa ones, not his.
“Do you fancy another drink? Or…”

“Or what?”

“Well, I was wondering if maybe you fancied a dance?”

We’d met the previous week in a club and I had distinct memories of dancing. Well, I say distinct. Fuzzy. But had some form of memory of some form of dancing. And lots and lots of embarrassing kissing.

“A dance?” He arched an eyebrow in a way that would have made most people look like a twat, but made him look cuter than normal. “I guess that means we won’t be having that awkward ‘who’s house will we go to’ chat for a while?”
“A couple ore hours maybe? Dance some of this booze out?”

“You mean sweat it out?”

I smiled. “Well?”

He emptied his drink. “Where do you want to go?” That smile again.

…

Something loud was playing. Very, very loudly. The club was rammed and boiling hot. It was a dingy basement in a dingy back alley in a dingy part of town. The walls were literally sweating. All the people were sweating. I felt like I was sweating more than both the walls and all the other people. Clamminess was not appealing in a potential new suitor. But, then again, he was perspiring pretty heavily and I didn’t seem to mind. By this point in the evening, we were both pretty hammered.

We’d arrived an hour earlier maybe. The queue was horrendous, but I knew one of the guys on the door so I managed to hopefully score a cool point or two. Or maybe it just looked like I went to the same club all the time. Either way, skipping past that queue always feels nice – literally everyone hated us. Thankfully, we were too drunk to notice. We went downstairs and Britney was screaming out of the PA system. Well, it wasn’t her. It was one of her records. We squeezed in by the bar. There was only just about enough space for the two of us. We were having to stand very close. I was leaning over the bar trying to catch one of the staff’s eyes. They appeared to be more interested in dancing than serving. I looked back and rolled my eyes. He just smiled and stuck his tongue out. I felt his hand move onto my back and I couldn’t help but grin. He leaned in over the bar with me, and together we dared to stare at the staff until one of them finally came over.

“Two Jack Daniels and ginger ale.” I was almost shouting over the music.

“And two sambuccas!” He actually was shouting over the music. But I liked what he had to shout.

“And two sambuccas as well please.” Manners cost nothing. Sambucca costs £3.50 a shot.

The drinks were with us, before Britney had finished her synth-wailing. We cheers-ed the plastic shot glasses, spilling tiny amounts of sambucca on the floor – still, the less I had to actually drink the better. This stuff could go one of two ways: it could go down and stay down. Or it could go down, decide to doesn’t like it there too much and pop back up to say hello before you made it away from the bar area. I know. Its happened to a friend of mine. Oh, alright, and to me. Twice. In one night. It takes me a while to learn from my mistakes.

Thankfully the aniseed rancidness slipped down quite easily. ‘Smoking ruins your taste buds”, my mum always used to say to me. How right she was. And in this instance I was massively thankful. So far I’d managed to keep cool on the date. I mean, I was insanely drunk, so ‘The Rules’ would have disapproved. But I hadn’t totally fucked it all up yet. Then again, it was only, what? Two in the morning? There was still plenty of time for all that.

About four seconds later the sambucca hit me like an alcohol soaked sledgehammer in the face. Does that even make sense? Who cares – I was shit-faced. So I had nothing to lose. I necked my Jack Daniels and ginger, dropped the plastic it came in on the floor (I refuse to call a plastic glass. A ‘plastic glass’. It makes no sense), grabbed his belt with and dragged him over to me. I guess in my head I was rocking some smooth moves, or some such thing. Like I was Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing grabbing Jennifer Gray for that first, sexy dance. I imagine I came across as a lecherous tramp with cross-eyes and greasy hair. Thankfully (luckily?), my prey had matched me all night drink for drink so succumbed to my manly…er, manliness and came in for the kiss. Phew. And that wasn’t just me sighing. I imagine everyone else in the club let out a collective sigh of relief when they saw that the two most pissed people in there had found their soul mates for the evening and wouldn’t be bothering them.

We stumbled around for bit, snogging like school kids doing it for a dare behind the bike sheds. We bumped in to some angry lesbians (they’re not all angry, just this particular group) who shoved us out of the way with their burly darts-throwing arms. We tried a bit of dancing, but to be honest neither of us were very capable. And then he leaned in to me and – I want to say whispered, but it was unbearably loud in there – shouted into my ear, “DO YOU WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE?”

“YES PLEASE!”

So we left. As soon as the cool air outside hit my face, I felt instantly more drunk. But it was still a happy drunk. My feet seemed to be especially happy, and were giddily going in whichever direction tickled their fancy. He seemed to be following in my crazy footsteps, so the two of us went on a little late night / early morning romantic stumble. We made our way out of the centre of town and headed south. Well, we were pretty sure we were heading south. If someone had spun us around a couple of times we could have been heading in any direction whatsoever.

I wasn’t going to mention what happened next. It’s a bit embarrassing. I mean, more than that. It’s dirty. Really dirty. I’m ashamed, but if I’m going to tell the story then I have to be honest. Admitting it will be perhaps help me get over it anyway. Here goes. We turned on to Cambridge Circus and saw our opportunity. It was late, we were drunk and it was there – staring at us in the face. Hot, the steam rising, the smell was awful but intoxicating. He saw us staring at him, indecisive.

“Hot dog, lads?”

That’s all it took. We were so easy, but God, it was good. Smiling, with dog juice and ketchup running down our chins, we carried on our merry way.

…

The alcohol had started wearing off, but there was an awful lot of it still inside, sloshing around, making us giddy. We threw caution to wind and held hands through the town. We talked utter nonsense while groups of screaming girls pin-balled down the streets, drunken guys hurled abuse at passing taxis, and passing taxis blissfully ignored gaggles of tourists. We weaved through the carnage of London on a Saturday night and after some indeterminate amount of time, found ourselves crossing the river and walking along the South Bank. We walked down towards the London Eye, blue fairy lights twinkling in the trees, occasionally passing another pissed couple, who either smiled back, or were too busy attempting to eat each other’s faces to care that we were giggling at them.

Before we reached the wheel, my feet started to ache – which either meant that my trainers had turned into high heels during the night, or the numbing affect of the booze was coming to an end. All that dancing and walking had taken it’s toll. “Shall we sit?” I used the last of my energy and bounded over to a bench, vaulted over in a display of athletic ability that, looking back on it, even impressed me. He smiled and moseyed over, taking the easier option and circumnavigate the bench and took a seat next to me.

We sat for a minute, or maybe three, just staring out at the buildings across the water. My hands were resting by my sides, and I willed him to make a grab for one of them. I didn’t have to wait too long. His fingers edge across the bench and found mine. I looked straight ahead, my eyes half-closed, but my smile wide.

“What are we going to do now?”

I looked across at him, but he was still staring straight ahead. I turned back to the view “I dunno.” I smiled again.

“To late to go to another club.” I looked at my watch. It was nearly 4 in the morning.

“Yup. Too late to stay out.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the corners of his mouth creep into a smile as I spoke.