THE BEST DAY OF OUR LIVES

The worst parts of a party are the stolen moments. You’re in a group and your flatmate is telling the story about the time they threw up on their headmistress in Year 9. You know the motions, the cues to laugh and nod and look horrified and you realise you're stealing away into yourself wondering if it would’ve been better to stay home. If it’s worth getting drunk tonight. If you’re even close with the host. You were a courtesy invite. Were you meant to come? The revelation hits: this will be one of the nights that fades into obscurity, unmentioned and unreferenced in future conversations.

 

You alright?

 

             Sorry?

 

I ask if you were alright?

 

             Umm, yes.

 

You look bored.

 

             I’m not.

 

Okay.

 

             … that’s just my face.

 

Okay.

 

             … it’s a really funny story.

 

Huh?

 

             I said it’s a really funny story.

 

Are you trying to convince me?

 

              No. What?

 

On the 22nd of October 2021 there was a fourth-floor window on Willowbank Street all lit up. From the darkening street below it looked jolly and seemed to be hosting the makings of great memories.

There was a guy who ironically wore a fedora, and everyone laughed politely and turned away when he explained. Someone called Callum was there. Everyone, still, thinks Callum is very hot and many who attended had previously had sex with him or one day would have sex with him.

You are one of the only people who wouldn’t. You came with two friends and wished you had come with more or different ones. A couple people there had thought they might have sex with you that night, but once you arrived at the party there was something in your gait or your manner of being that drew everyone away from you.

 

Did you fuck Callum?

 

             What?

 

Have you ever had sex with Callum?

 

            Urrm… why do you want to know?

 

Because he’s a sexy man. I would be envious.

 

             He’s probably bedded most people here.

 

King of bedding. We bow before Callum.

 

             He’d love that we were having this conversation about him.

 

Maybe he shags so many people so he can always be the topic of someone else’s conversation.

 

            And really he’s turned on by his own fame… basically he wants to fuck himse-

 

He wants to fuck himself.

 

             He wants to fuck himself.

 

Ha.

 

             Is that genius or madne-

 

Do you want to fuck yourself?

 

Once you leave the kitchen and everyone that always goes to these things, you search for the balcony. Not a literal balcony (usually). It could be the bedroom with the coats or the stairwell. The people who are wobbly go there and you feel at ease. You know they won’t remember you tomorrow. You will probably remember them.

            In the garden there’s a girl who got too dressed up and a guy who took too much before coming out. Someone’s cousin calls you over and the group starts talking about Strictly Come Dancing and other shit. The cousin is tall and stands by your side and says you have green eyes. You realise you immediately have to “tell my friend about that thing with the guy, it really can’t wait, was lovely meeting you”. And you're back to friends and back to safety. For thirty minutes you escaped the kitchen.

 

Grace had already shagged Callum twice, but it seems she was wanting another go. There were one or two others who were interested in pulling Callum, but Grace was securely in the lead. You confirmed this with your other friend and you both decided to go dance in the bedroom. Old school Justin Timberlake was playing and the whole group got into it. The posters on the wall were ugly and colourful and it felt groovy and free and no one was wearing a bra and to the braless it didn’t feel sexual, it felt good, but to some of the watching men it was fucking hot.

 

How do you know Jen?

 

She lived with me in halls.

 

Oh, cool.

 

 

 

… we were in a class together last semester.

 

Do you know she plays the bagpipes?

 

Yeah, yes, I do.

 

I meant that as a euphemism.

 

She actually plays the bagpipes!

 

I know right.

 

I don’t like the bagpipes.

 

You don’t like squeezing a sack and blowing on a stick.

 

Very funny.

 

Well Jen does and I think that’s great.

 

You’re an idiot… I don’t like them because I think it makes a terrible noise.

 

Like this song.

 

You don’t like Britney Spears?

 

Who?

 

Come on.

 

I’m making a joke. She is a very accomplished woman who makes music that I don’t want to listen to.

 

Now Britney Spears is a noise I like.

 

Tell me what else you like.

 

 

Grace and Callum weren’t seen for a while. The fedora guy found himself in the middle of the dancing for most of the night. People seemed to have forgiven him or were too focused on catching someone’s eye or finding out if the party on White Street was any better. You and your remaining friend drank four more drinks each, danced to every song and laughed at the guys who painfully shit at dancing. They weren’t even hot enough to justify the embarrassment. You pulled them into the middle eventually because you knew you could overpower them with resistance if necessary. They would think about you afterwards, but you just thought you were being nice.

 

1:30am is usually where things falter. You’ve talked to every weirdo at this point and ignored everyone you thought was hot and drunk enough that you want to spew but never do. So you sit on the sofa by yourself.

            He sits next to you almost immediately and you talk for nearly 45 minutes. He is very interesting and someone that you’ll never find attractive. Everything you want in a friend. You usually find the wobbly people yourself, but I think you attract each other.

 

But have you ever seen The Callers live?

 

No. I do like their music though.

 

I’m actually going to their gig.

 

Oh… could I come with?

 

…yeah, it’s next Thursday.