I counted seven freckles on her left arm. Joe’s lips moved against my ear as he talked. The
jukebox swelled with fluorescent music.
Now I am accosted by aged aunts and anonymous dates on the arms of men I
vaguely recognise as Joe’s friends.
“Sorry Violet couldn’t be here… such short notice…”
“Your dress! Is it vintage?”
“And the invitations – so… cute.”
We eat. The men make their speeches, including Mr Rickman, who keeps
everyone waiting while he finishes his cigarette in the courtyard. Amid the chirrup and
chime of glasses, my tongue remembers the whiskey, the crook of Amy’s downy arm (a
naked pool), the glow of the liquid as she held it to my mouth: taste. It was a haze that
shimmered on my lips and sank down my throat, like the sun being swallowed by the sea.
Amy and I were waiting in the glass-fronted lobby, its mirrored walls a triptych
of flashy, polished surfaces. I’d wrapped Joe’s jacket around both of us, hooked around
my left shoulder and her right, the fabric turning us inwards. We could see Joe signing
papers, checking his watch, shuffling key cards. His jacket fell from Amy’s shoulder and
slipped down our bodies to the floor. She kissed me swiftly, then stepped back towards the
glass doors, receding into rain, city lights, endless windows climbing upwards. “I have to
go,” she said. “Don’t choke.” Did she really say that? Her smile left my face. She was gone
in a roar of raven umbrellas splintering the night sky. I turned back to Joe as the elevator
wrenched a hole in the wall behind me. He was disappointed.
My hands are on his jacket as we move to our first dance, vinyl spinning on the
turntable, something new and cool, th