I needed it.
I went into town with a friend, a fellow dreamer who I hadn’t seen since before the summer. Together we whiled away an afternoon in a tiny Italian we discovered off Portobello Road. And Internet, we drank.
It was sort of an accident. And yet, I’ve been drinking a lot lately. An awful lot.
It was one of those perfect, unplanned days where one bottle leads to another, and we talked about every.single.last.thing. We used rudimentary Italian with the waiter who decided, with a glint in his eye, that he’d really like “English lessons” and requested my phone number to organise such an event, and as we exited a band was playing in the square opposite and Jack said, “Let’s dance!” and so we did. The moments between flinging my bag to the floor and the first roll of my hips were non-existent. The crowd cheered and applauded. We laughed, and we laughed, and we laughed, and then we left.
I came home to flowers on my doorstep. A note. Laura, no pretence or wank, just this: you’re not okay right now, and that’s okay. We’ve got your back.
I came inside and thanked the culprit, my housemate. She hugged me tight. Repeated the words of her note. And it caught me so off guard, the kindness of it, that I went into my room to lie down, on my side, curled into a ball, and I cried.