I slumped into bed at about half 1 last night after some drinks in Manchester. I’d met a friend for a drink, but made the rookie mistake of not eating anything before I went out so by the time 12 o’clock rolled around I wasn’t feeling particularly up for much more. We stood in the new G-A-Y in Manchester’s ubiquitous gay village, the video screens playing the music videos of the songs playing overhead. I liked the idea of the videos, but it did make me feel like I was in some kind of flat pack gay bar that came complete with a copy of Windows Media Player and a handful of media. Everyone will be trashed, they’ll never notice the playlist looping back round, and if they do, we’ll just put GaGa on and everyone will be docile again. I became transfixed on Beyonce’s video for single ladies. Well, I was transfixed on her hips, swerving back and forth like a snake, beckoned from a basket. I tried to do a few dance moves (pumping fists downwards, if you must know), but the music just boomed in my head and my stomach bounded about my body.
I left and jumped in a taxi, too intoxicated to attempt the walk home, which at this point seemed an impossible task. I felt a rush of relief when the taxi driver actually knew where my flat was, I had no intention of giving directions. Left? No, right? I don’t know. As I stumbled up the steps, two Asian guys walked past with two, how can I put this, ‘clad’ girls. One wore an electric yellow skirt; it seemed to reflect every beam of light that hit her oddly rounded behind. I crossed my fingers, hoping they’d go into block 5 rather than my own block, so I could get the lift in peace but the gods of finger crossing did not appreciate my request. I took the stairs, all six flights. The thought of being in a lift that stank of sexual desire and cheap aftershave made me feel even worse than I already did.
I carefully fumbled with my keys in the lock and pushed into my flat, determined not to wake my sleeping housemate. No time to think about anything else. With my teeth brushed in a manner so brief any dentist would cry, my clothes were on the floor and my head was on the pillow. The sound of the night still resonated in my head, pulsing like a silent police siren. My head sank into my pillows, the duvet folded around me, and the silence engulfed me.
Filed under: creative writing, g-a-y, manchester, original-writing, silence, sleep
