<and then afterwards> <okay this is a separate chapter>
You left. You had a prior <and *that* is a separate chapter>. But you came back - you handed my your phone, you asked me to put in my number. I was bursting. I put in my number. Also a landline number. Also an email address <omfg too keen>. And I got you to reciprocate. All the numbers. All the places. There would be no possibility of missed connection.
And still you left.
I was the last to really get my act together and leave. I was pretty blown out, lying on the floor with the sounds of Saturday Night Courtenay Place coming up through the floor and in the window… Those who weren’t running actually late for priors had helped to clean up, but then dressed and departed. Angie was in the shower. She had offered me first shower but I wanted none of clean. I wanted to steep in scented oils and the sweat of 8 hands… When Angie was ready to leave I helped her close up and I went home in oil and bliss.
It was like a runners high and a post coital daze and a rush of love to the head. The morphine painlessness. I walked through the booze soaked piss smelling cacophony of Wellington’s Saturday midnight and there was nothing but warmth and love. I love you, homeless guy, here is a kilo of dal we couldn’t eat. I love you, drunk club girls. I love you, popped collar rugby boys. You can’t touch me <I’m very oiled up> you can’t hurt me <I’m numb from the eyes down>. I Love Everybody.