The Mourning After.

It’s that part of the night where nothing and everything happens. You’re sitting on the edge of Craig’s lumpy white couch, the one that’s slightly sunk in the middle and isn’t exactly white anymore, uncomfortably refreshing all the social media apps on your phone. Your throat is parched from the cigarettes. Music is playing in the background. It’s a band you don’t recognise; you’ve stopped checking up on music in the last three years and no longer spend money on music festivals. You can barely work Snapchat and try to conceal your annoyance as you see people trying to make their night more interesting than it really is. It’s starting to embarrass you how often your parents still bail you out of sticky situations. And you’ve been working hard, trying your best not to quit even if the job kills you, because you can’t afford to jump jobs anymore since that track record isn’t looking too good. The way you are dressed now, in cotton tees and less form-fitting pants ever since the beer caught up with your belly, has less thought invested into it than the Nudie jeans and Supreme sweatshirts you used to wear.

You’re tired, you think, as you watch the crowd flock this cramped living room. There is a more exclusive group of smokers starting their own party outside whereas some are lying belly-down on the floor. Some things don’t change. Craig looks forever young in spite of his premature balding. It’s in his full-bodied laugh which makes it sound like he is genuinely bemused by everything. He drinks like it’s his first year of college – relentlessly, unapologetically, as if there is no tomorrow waiting on him.

It’s been awhile since you’ve fallen in love but you gaze at the sea of pretty faces glimmering in your half-sober state. All these lovely tiny mouths, like little flowers. It feels lonely here, listening to the shimmery sounds of laughter and watching everyone exchange pleasantries that won’t last the night. You think of your past relationship and how you mistakenly thought it’d end in marriage. The both of you don’t go to the same places at the same time anymore, or try not to anyway. The city is too small to avoid each other forever. You used to love all the ways in which she moved, the way she fiddled with her fingers when she got nervous, how her eyes lit up whenever she had an entertaining story to tell, the way she would tip her head slightly when she was feeling flirty, the way she held her cigarette daintily. You see now her movements were never crass, or at least not during the prime of her girlhood. When was the last time you’ve felt the way she made you feel? Not since Tinder exploded, surely. You remember again how dating is hard. Where do all the decent people go to and,

was that even love? One day you will forget the way she smelled, the texture of her hair running through your fingers, the way the both of you belonged to the other during quieter moments of the day. A few days ago you found out Prince died. The both of you used to love listening to his music together. He was a hero, one you always thought of as ageless and eternal, just like Bowie, but he too has passed.

She, too, will age, and so will you. The both of you will find refuge in other bodies again and again. But on some days you will always still be caught in a more innocent time, so far away, when little else mattered except getting through the days running errands, savouring meals, and listening to music in the company of the other.

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