Monday, May 30, 2005

The awful truth about getting older

College days, those endless pints, those flirting kissable days I ate up in a muddle of bad hair, flared trousers, dancing like a chicken, and that I never woke up I thought was a tribute until.

They've all grown up and out and away. Its dull, to stand, in a kitchen where you smoked spliff and talked a night into morning, to see there, before your eyes, your beautiful friend, and cake and champagne. Speeches, not so funny now, where it is all conformity.

I miss you, my contrary friend, who has become, I suppose a woman or her mother or something I don't recognise. Now I have to mind my manners, don't know what the right thing is to say. Puzzled five minutes, and a glorious woman and her boss, about what champagne was the right one to buy.

Then, you and I and the others, drinking peach schnappes and orange, mixed in the bottle, singing our way down the road to the taxi, to dance a night away.

One of us believes, to this day, that she saw a ghost in your house at night, a girl brushing her hair. Thought it was you.

I can't even see a glimpse of you there anymore. You said you'd call. I wasn't sorry when you didn't. If you had, I would have smiled, said 'enjoy your life, you look like it is what you want. You look at him like he is who you want. Not that guy we both loved in college, with his charming smile and his big heart, long jacket and dyed black hair.'
And I understand. I can't see you standing there anymore, telling me breathlessly how good the sex is, not fifteen minutes after he has.

We're older now, and as you see me there, in my nice new clothes with my hair sleekly coiffed, maybe you can't see me either.

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