The Writing on the Wall

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Ida J. The Writing on the Wall

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THE WRITING ON THE WALL

Ida J

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We decide to go to a nearby bar as we’re out of cigarettes. I fling on my dress and sandals, not bothering to locate my underwear. My makeup is smudged, I look like I’ve been up to no good. He has only one look, and that is up to no good. We swagger out of the flat hand in hand, it’s the first time I’ve held hands with someone since I broke up with my now-ex, who I was with for most of my twenties. I feel both exhilarated and strangely vulnerable. It’s rather appropriate, considering we’ve agreed to marry by morning.

We get to the bar with a cigarette machine. It turns out he’s barred from the place, for being drunk and disorderly in some way. Probably many ways. I mean he’s disorderly in every sense of the word, pure chaos. And he’s drunk. I go downstairs to the machine to buy the cigarettes. When I come back up, he’s remonstrating with the staff. After they persuade him to leave, we stand around outside for a bit on this warm summer night, talking to some acquaintances of his. We’re rambling at each other on the way back to the flat, he says they’d never have let me in there, but because you were there it was fine. I’m not sure it was technically fine, but nor do I care.

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