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keep me
perfectly poised for the rest of the evening.
    ***
    Several hours later we’re in Fabric and I’m drunkidy drunk
drunk drunk.
    We left the Loft at midnight. As we’d walked out, Antonio’s
neglected beauties declared that they were leaving. They had looked
real grouchy. Fair enough, two random girls did just waltz over and
steal their mans.
    The night is turning into a bit of a blur, but right now I’m
boogying to something drum-and-basey. I’m still amazed that I’m
dancing with someone who can only be described as a demigod. I’m
laughing loudly and sloshing my vodka Coke onto the floor. The
Stranger is equally plastered, but he’s got the good sense not to
talk too much.
    “You know I call you ‘the Stranger’, right?” I pull him in so
I don’t have to yell over the music.
    Maybe I pulled a little too hard because we both
stumble.
    “Really?” He laughs and pulls me in for another of tonight’s
many hugs (another melt-worthy moment), “Why is this,
bellissima?”
    “Because of the way you treated Lizzy.” I slur.
    Lizzy was the Stranger’s ‘friend’ from two years ago. And when
I say ‘friend’ I mean fuck buddy. When Emma moved in with Arianna
and we met this group for the first time, Lizzy had been big on the
scene. Poor Lizzy had been madly in love with the Stranger, but
whenever anyone asked him about her he would laugh and reply that
she was ‘just a friend’. He told Lizzy from the outset that he
wasn’t interested in a relationship and never would be, but if she
wanted to explore the physical side of things he was ready, willing
and able. She had agreed, probably thinking he would come around.
You know, that delusional rationale so many of us use (including
myself), goes something along the lines of
‘If-I-hang-out-with-him-long-enough-he’s-bound-to-start-liking-me’.
    He hadn’t. Though the Stranger and Lizzy were hooking up for
over a year he never took her out for a date. Everrr. There were
times when he would text her to come over to his place, but if she
didn’t arrive quickly enough would refuse to answer his door. There
are two sides to every story though, while she said he had refused
to answer the door, his version was that he’d fallen asleep and it
was an innocent mistake.
    If a guy ever did that to me… God help them is
all I’ll say to that.
    “You were very mean to her!” I yell over the music.
    He looks legitimately confused. And the
thing is, maybe he has a right to be. Because maybe he hadn’t been
mean to Lizzy. He had refused to lie, refused to lead her on,
refused to fake the possibility of a happily ever after when there
was none. He had acted identically to the character from Albert
Camus’ The Stranger (hence the nickname). Have you read that book? It’s a tricky
one to get your head around. The protagonist has no feelings, none
whatsoever. Does the fact he’s completely detached make him a bad
person? Inhumane, in the sense that emotions and passion make us
human?
    Boy, I never have such D&Mey thoughts when I’m sober. All
this booze is really letting the creative juices flow!
    But I’m getting wa-hay sidetracked. Back to the tall,
drool-worthy lad who is currently pulling my hips to lock in with
his.
    “I was not mean, I was honest. I do not do
relationships.”
    And before I can respond he is kissing me. A minute later he
pulls away and continues.
    “And what about you, hmmm? I call you florecita.”
    “Huh?” I ask distractedly. My eyes are seeing stars, that’s
how good that kiss was. I gulp down more vodka. I love this drink.
I love life. How can it possibly get any better than
this?
    “It mean little flower.”
    “Say what?!” I scream over the music, my mind still reeling
from the passion of that latest lip lock.
    “Long hair, brown eyes. You are like sunflower,
no?”
    I start laughing as I respond,
    “In that case, you should feel very privileged to play even a
small part in my deflowering!”
    I stop laughing when I see