50 Reasons to Say Goodbye by Nick Alexander

Author:Nick Alexander
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atlantic Books
Published: 2011-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

Drunk and Lonely

I am depressed; I am leaving. The collection of muscle-bound boys, t-shirts swinging from their back pockets, sweating, glistening, as they wobble their perfect pecs across the dance floor does nothing for me tonight. It all seems smooth and superficial and pointless and not what I need.

I miss Henry. Even if the clubs in New York were just as sanitised, we used to have great conversations.

I crave for some real emotion, a real flash of love at first sight, even hate at first sight would do. Some joy, some sadness, instead of this cheap excuse for a good time.

I push through the double doors into the windy winter night and fumble in my pocket for my keys, preparing myself for the drive back to Grasse – alone in the country with my cat and my chickens again.

The cold air bites into my skin and I pull my collar up.

I thought the country would calm me, thought the isolation would be restful, but I just spend my time driving into Nice, and then driving back to the winter desolation of it all.

Sitting on a car bonnet in front of the club is a young lad, maybe twenty-five, maybe even less – at any rate he’s around ten years younger than myself.

He has the sultry dark looks that so many seem to have here in the south of France: olive skin, jet-black hair, half-length, swept back from his face, deep brown eyes. He’s beautiful; he’s drunk. He’s wearing a brown leather pilot’s jacket and a thick grey scarf wrapped high around his neck; he drunkenly catches my eye and smiles.

I give a crisp grin in return and head towards my car, but I sense him moving, following me.

He grabs my sleeve. “Bonsoir,” he says. He sounds like he has a cold.

I turn; he really is very beautiful, and very drunk.

“Hi,” I reply.

“Excuse me?” His speech slurs. “Do you have a car?”

I smile at him nonplussed. I’m jingling my keys in my hand; the car is three meters away. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t deny it. “Sure,” I reply. “Why?”

He giggles. He’s gripping my arm so tightly it hurts, holding himself upright. “It’s just you look nice,” he says. – “Sympa.”

I roll my eyes upwards and grin, flattered. “You need a lift home?”

He nods. “I’m so drunk … Rue de France.”

He wobbles and I hoist his arm around my shoulder and lead him towards the car.

He giggles again. He says, “Oh bébé!”.

I fumble with the lock with my left hand, and lower him into the passenger seat.

As I drive through the deserted four-am streets he alternates between slumping into momentary sleep – his head lolling forwards – and waking with a start, gripping my thigh.

From time to time I steal a glance at him. He’s so very, very beautiful. I think, “With looks like that, he has to be stupid, right? Because anything else would be unfair.”

I wonder whether I will take advantage of him. He’s keen and drunk, it would be easy.

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