Friday Night Is

Friday night is a halter top in the Dunedin winter. Friday night is open-toed heels, purpling toes peeping at the beer-soaked floor of the Captain Cook. Friday night is Vodka Cruisers and lollies, beer and cigarettes (Marlboros for the best hit, you splitting the pack with Shell and Kez). Friday night is snagging the corner bench with the view of the front door. Friday night is this boy, or that boy, or whatever boy while you wait for the boy. Friday night is cigarette-in-hand, tits out, turning away from the front door when you clock his dirty blonde flop, angle the drink so it spills over, and you have to lick the sticky sweetness off your fingers. Friday night is raising your can to him so casual, so cool, then darting glances as he gets slowly wasted with his mates, your ears cocked for their jagged laughter, their commentary on the chicks, the sheilas, the babes. Friday night is listening, listening, listening for your name, not sure if you want to hear it. Friday night is remembering all the other Friday nights, pulling Shell and Kez onto the dance floor when Kylie, Underworld, Chumbawumba come on, hands in the air, hands in your hair, hands on your swaying hips, watching-not watching him not-watching you. Friday night is convincing Kez and Shell to stay on at the Cook because the music is better than the Fat Lady’s Arms, the beer cheaper than The Church. Friday night is Kez and Shell rolling their eyes saying, “He’s not coming over, babe, let’s just go.” And Friday night is him not coming over. He does that on Saturday morning, pebbles tap-tap-tapping at your window which you open every time, pulling his musky body into bed, unzipping him, bending your head to the chorus of his moans. Saturday morning is him not looking at you, pulling on his jeans, escaping through the window, saying “See you round”, knowing he will. Because that’s what Friday night is for.

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