The dripping drizzle trickled and flickled along a leaky drainpipe, the excess run-off forming a puddle deep enough to paddle in. I tried to avoid the plague of downpour for as long as I could, hiding away in the semi-shelter. Why am I hiding? I’m hiding from a girl. A girl I have fallen madly in love with to the point that I can’t talk to her. It’s impossible. Whenever I get the slightest whiff of confidence, my throat goes dry like I’ve swallowed half of the Sahara Desert. My voice stutters and cracks and putters and ack-ack-acks. Great, it’s like having a conversation with a shrieking Chihuahua.
The first time we spoke, it was a brief but brilliant bit of banter about music. It turns out, very luckily enough, that she is a massive fan of the Roses. Ah, the Roses. The lilting melodies, tilting elegies and wilting flowers of the glorious Stone Roses. She’s what you might call my Sally Cinnamon. Anyway, before I ramble on more than a chattering parrot- every sulky glance from her deep brown eyes sends me dizzy. My head is spinning. Once I’ve started feeling like a shaken-up can that’s inches from exploding, then it takes a while to stop. Tonight’s earlier encounter was another brief affair. A breezy and cheesy bit of small talk on the way to the bar was followed by awkwardly fumbling for some change. I picked up my pint and managed to slink away, face going pink in the grey night. It is so painful seeing people so confident, so brazen and so comfortable starting conversations with women. I just stand around, gulping my nerves down my neck and guzzling away the anxiety. My pint is bubbly and troubling as I try to avoid the drooping droplets from grogging into my glass. A group of black and leather clad girls are having a very heated discussion about the state of modern rock music, Nirvana is banging on the dancefloor upstairs and here I am, stuck in the piddle with you. These girls are really going at it, their voices raised to a slight screech as they reach the end of their cigarettes, and conversation. Hit with a sudden attack of bravado, a wave of boldness comes over me. I am gonna leg it up these stairs, find her, tell her how I feel and suffer the inevitable rejection coming my way. At least then, I’ll know. There will be closure. It might also kill off any self-esteem that I have lurking around. I’m like a car running on fumes after the petrol has gone. The self-esteem dial is definitely on red as I take the stairs two, three at a time. A lad with his hood up stands in my way. It is a horrible shade of purple. I really want to just move him out of my way but if push were to become shove then there’d be serious problems coming. I clear my throat in that incredibly British way of telling someone you’re there without actually telling them. He slides to the left as I slide to the right. My pint makes noise as the amber nectar sloshes and moshes in the plastic glass (not a thing is it? It’s plastic, not glass). Anyway, I keep rattling on when you probably wanna know the story. She is there. Right there. The dancefloor, rocking and rolling in synchronized sweat, she is wearing a plain white t-shirt. Hey there, Delilah. Oh, I can’t do it. What an idiotic idea. I honestly thought that I could just march up to her, give it the old jelly legs dance moves, offer to buy her a drink and then that was the end of the process. What do I say? So, here I am just standing at the edge of a dancefloor, seeing people throwing shapes to the popping and bopping sound of the Arctic Monkeys. I bet she looks good on the dancefloor. She definitely does. Okay, here goes. Deep breath, try not to inhale the claggy stench of mosh-pit while at all times looking cool as a penguin in a fridge. Why do these kinds of nightclubs always have sticky floors and slippery surfaces? A whiter shade of stale. To my surprise, she turns to me and dances at me. The 21st century way of saying to go and talk to her. It’s so hard to just speak to someone, you have to give it a wiggle and a wriggle to get their attention and then move in like a lioness, in for the kill. It’s something I have never quite mastered. Oh, looks like there’s a rival. It’s Purple Hoodie. I’m not having this. I’m so close. He stares me down then backs away. I’m the king of this pride. Who wears hoods inside a club? He looks like a blackcurrant on spice, anyway. I look into her cherubic chestnut eyes and gesture to come outside with me. She smiles. It’s a real, whole tube of Aquafresh smile too. Not just a polite grin. I don’t think she even knows my name. The stop-start bibbling rain is still going. It sploshes a bit as we walk out. Never mind, this is the moment. Seize the opportunity. Forget about the butterflies gnawing their way through my intestines. Ignore the tingling sensation of dread filling my head. Go for it. Casanova time. She does know my name. She’s just asked me a question. Part Two If you can condemn a man to the electric chair for smiling then I’d let her shock me until I sizzle. She is so lovely. I start imagining all sorts of soppy things like her laugh stopping the rain or her eyes out-dazzling the moonlight. It’s a wonderful night for a moon dance. I’m taking the chance. She asked me if I was having a good night. Okay, no over-powering erotic or romantic overtones there. Just a simple, straight to the point sentence. This is where my mouth usually feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool. You know what? I am having a good night. I’m having a great night just watching you moving in rhythm to the beat. Move your feet. I like to move it. I can’t stop admiring her wonderfully chocolate eyes. I like the way she gets little creases- not wrinkles or crow’s feet- in the corner of her eyes when she talks or smiles. Her laugh is like the sound of diamonds. She’s perfect. I’m dying to say something funny, something devilishly clever and original. I’m failing. I’m flailing into a whirlpool of awkward conversation and sinking like a stone to the bottom of the Silent Ocean. Oh no. Say something. Say anything. Fortunately, I don’t have to. Delilah tells me I look like I need a hug. She moves in to me, the perfume and the hair and the rain and the emotion floods into me. There is a potent mixture of flowers, vanilla and puddles. It’s a cocktail. Maybe me being all shy and reserved is somehow attractive? No, she must just feel sorry for me. I’m shivering in the increasing chill. The biting blow of winter cuts through my goosebumped skin, penetrating through my non-existent muscle definition and entering my bloodstream. Frozen veins. I feel like plugging myself into the mains. She detaches herself, looking longingly at me. I never realized anyone could feel this way. Her eyes melt into mine, a liquid love. Where is Mr. Purple Hoody now, eh? If ever there was a time to pour my heart out to her, it is now. I start to formulate the words. They just flow out of me. A stream of heartfelt yet sometimes incoherent praise. She means this to me. She looks like that to me. I’m no good for her. I’m a shy lad shifting and shuffling on the spot, disheveled and distracted by the gang of people standing close by. I’m starting to loosen up now. This is great. The conversation has started to be more natural, more flirty. I don’t even have the urge to talk about something geeky. Nobody likes a close encounter of the nerd kind. Although, I am feeling a little bit queasy. No. No. No. Not this. Please no. Not now. I know it seems a bit Mean Girls (don’t ask) but I feel like I’m gonna spew the technicolor burp all over her plain white t-shirt. How romantic. Instead of being all charming and Mr. Darcy, I’m seeing double and the drinks have hit me like a ton of bricks. She still looks great, though. All four of her. The chunder bubble is rolling up, making rapid progress up my throat. I need to move. Move. Quickly. Of all the times to not be able to stomach the booze, it had to be now. The chat is put on hold as she looks at my sheet-white face, distressed and depressed. Any chance I had of making the moves has been indefinitely postponed. There can be nothing romantic about chucking up a frothy fountain of acidic stomach lining. No. No. No. I repeat. No. My tongue feels thick. It’s almost as if I have the rubber sole of a shoe soaking up what little moisture there is. I need water. She leaves. I am destroyed. No, she’s back. With water. Maybe it isn’t a complete disaster. Yeah, this could be a funny story to tell. In years to come, on our houseboat in the canals of Amsterdam, we can reminiscence of the time I ruined my trainers with a torrent of sick shandy. We’ll laugh about this. She’s laughing about this. Get yourself cleaned up and we’ll go get some food. For the worst possible thing to happen, this has somehow turned out fine. My embarrassment is washed away by the still-falling sleet. The good news is that Delilah didn’t recoil too much. The bad news is my shoes are freckled with the fragments of booze. I will take this as a minor victory. The start of something amazing. We start the walk back from the club, the rain stops enough for us to make a slow, meandering walk, hand-in-hand, like a long-term couple. The twilight blue sky is chopped by vicious flashes of violet. I only wanna see you in the purple rain. Even the clouds have dispersed, framing the throbbing moon in perfect symmetry to our blossoming romance. Oh, what a night. In the solar system of love, our constellation is being mapped out.
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