merry christmas, please don't call

The wind itched the back of my throat a little, and I took a drag to scratch it. We all sat, four of us, in woolen coats and draped legs. 

It was eccentric, having met you the night before-but here we were, on the terrace of the Dean laughing out our exhales and drawing in each others’ eyes. We all laughed, alot, and it seemed the drinks floated towards the table and flowed endlessly settling into my spinning head. Dizziness induced by the bottle of Les Pentes Douces; the night aged agnate to the whiskey ordered for the table. Smooth and robust, flipping around fags in the box- I ask what you would wish for.

Three strangers. And I indulged in it like a party drug laid on the washroom's marble counter. Listening to the stories and secrets- separating the group one at a time, playing the priest at confessional. 

A flicker of silver watches and white buttoned cuffs; Galway city’s streetlights burned my eyes and I blinked away tears of indecision. Standing out, amid the red lips of high beams and black taxi cabs- the artificial green of Connacht’s training ground, and we made plans I wouldn’t keep. 

I remember it all- that single night shared like appetisers.