The loneliness of the long-distance bawler.
Last night I had an evening of fun and frolics with my favourite blonde boy. The one who will be leaving this place in favour of Japanese cheekbones and karaoke bars - the good life of an ex pat in Hiroshima. I’m devastated, in the most selfish way possible.
We met up just as I’d seen Lost in Translation, and its take on Tokyo life as lived by two clueless, transient, yet stuck, westerners. A good film, funny and romantic and melancholy. Of course the rest of the planet, including the suburbs of Ouagadougou, Burkina Fasso, have already seen it, since England has the slowest distribution circuit in the world. I pestered M all evening to convince him to go see it too. He actually knows quite a bit of Japanese. At any rate, he knows how to say that he hasn’t got a small dick.
But- PMT. I shed a few unnecessary tears towards the end, walked out of the cinema and into the night, filled to the brim with warm and fuzzy feelings towards my fellow human beings. I begged a Big Issue vendor for his last copy in exchange for my unworthy £1.20. At the tube station some kind and generous soul gave me his Zone 1/2 travelcard - I thanked him with a stifled sob of gratitude. On the Picadilly line train, I wept reading my Big Issue. By the time I got to the pub to meet M I had eyes like an albino rabbit. We hugged and drank and chatted. Acceptably bland fare was consumed in some trendy Soho dive. By the third glass of wine I was ready to squeeze him and beg him no to go, but I am a grown up now so I blew my nose discreetly in the loo. Later I begged to not go to the bars with the lesbians cos I looked crap by then, my eye make-up amply diluted. Sat on our lego-like seats, under the thirty-two mini-disco balls, we stared longingly/critically at the snogging couples on our right and the cruising singletons on our left. I cried quietly cos I was missing my girl. (It’s not done to stare but they were just too cute.) I bawled most of my way home.