You see her.
The girl. The woman. The dream. The one.
She’s got those eyes that sparkle
and that smile that makes bits of you glow
that you didn’t even know you had.
And those fucking tits.
You wait for her to go to the bar,
sidle up beside her,
knock her elbow so she looks at you.
Smile and apologise. You’re in.
Compliment her hair, her necklace, her dress.
Keep her talking while you check for the signs.
Boots. Check. Eyebrow piercing. Check.
Rubber rainbow on the wrist. Check.
Sorry lads, this ones on our team.
Linger over the drinks until your friends get pissed,
go your separate ways
but keep your eyes glued to her as the night goes on.
Of course, she looks too. You’re wearing your lucky pants.
She hits the dancefloor so you drag your mates out,
dance behind her until you’re dancing with her,
until it’s a mess of swaying hips
and air pumping fists
and feet with no rhythm
but fuck it, you look good.
She takes you to the corner to kiss
and her mouth tastes like Sambuca and smoke and you hate both
and she moves her tongue like she has no clue what she’s doing
but you don’t mind
because, well, look at her.
At least she knows what she’s doing with her fingers.
You keep swaying so it looks like you’re still dancing
but her fingers are inside you
and yours are inside her
and it’s dark and sweaty and gross
and there’s a couple opposite doing the same
and one of them winks at you
and you feel sick and drunk and hot and spaced and-
then it’s done.
Lights are coming on and phones are coming out
and she types her number into yours with wet fingers
but you both know you’ll never text her.
She’s already looking rough.
She asks if you’ll be back and you will
but you’ll pretend not to recognise her.
She may have been the one
but tomorrow night there’ll be number two,
three, four, five, six, seven.
Drink, dance, fuck, repeat.
This is the life.
This is the life.
This is my life.
F. R. Kesby is a poet and storyteller from Leeds. She is a regular on the local open mic scene as well as the current chair of The Leeds Savage Club, the oldest writing club in Leeds (and definitely the best). When not writing she can usually be found ranting about Doctor Who.