Words || Holly Friedlander-Liddicoat
You wake up. It’s 7pm. You walk alongside the train line to 110 Chortle Crescent. On the footpath facing the house you notice a mist eating your ankles. It’s November. You look at the door, then to your left, right; two silent houses. Realise the mist is pouring straight out of the terrace in front of you. You enter.
UV purple runs the hallway. Walk through a curtain of metallic streamers. The smoke machine exhales. Two woman stand on a chair, taking down the fire alarm. There’s a halloween party going on two doors over, but this ain’t it. Someone’s bought a drink fountain, it lights up blood orange. You put a cup under the stream on your way through. Is this Pimms?
You kiss your ex-boyfriend on the cheek. You hope he doesn’t see the hickeys on your neck—it’s been a week. Your mate’s mates who stole the beers last time are back again. You give your mate a smile and some MDMA. You choose a red lollipop from the bowl nearby.
Someone’s blowing bubbles in the lounge room. You tell another friend ‘last night I almost took a guy’s virginity’. You wonder where you’ve put your phone already. In the bathroom above the loo is a giant portrait of Kramer. It reads: ‘He is a loathsome offensive brute, yet I can’t look away’. Candles around the spa-like bath flicker. They run on batteries.
You beeline for the Pimms. A man’s already there, cup out, refilling. You match him. You turn and smile, he reciprocates. He’s wearing a white cardboard sign around his neck: ‘LOST’. Is he from the other party? A crowd emerges from the lounge. Someone hands you a party bag. The fire alarm chicks feed each other Wizz Fizz. You think you see the LOST guy enter the next room’s haze. Someone makes you a peach iced tea. Gives you a line of K.
The musician you met at last night’s ‘The Party’ is here. God, you want to make out with her so bad. You say hi, don’t try. You hear someone ask ‘has anyone seen my pouch?’ Several people pat their pockets instinctively. Your ex walks past you through the haze. You should probably sit on the couch but you scab a ciggy from someone who has just found theirs in the Great Pat Down of 2016 and
you step out the front door. Overlook the train line. Not a damn one tonight. You see the LOST guy walking away from the party and down the street. The mist has widened. Was he carrying a loaf of bread? You hear someone call your name. It’s way too early to leave. Instead you wait poised like a semicolon, interchanging lollipop and ciggy.