I showed up, not because I wanted to see him again, but despite that possible eventuality. I couldn't let a scummy man interfere with my social life. I didn't regularly look around to see if he had entered the room. I didn't wonder if he would fail to show up when the party left the house to hit Normandy (nowadays The Frontier Bar). I didn't take too many Berliner Luft shots because men were awful and nothing really mattered.
I was standing with the smokers outside by the entrance to Normandy. I had forgotten all about him and was in a cheerful mood when he showed up, an unfamiliar girl by his side no less. They passed through without greeting anybody. I stared and only recognized him a moment after he made half a nod towards my direction (no Elvis attire, I was disappointed). I couldn't tell if it was absentminded or bashful and for a brief second I felt like the jerk for my unintentional poker face.
My snark that smoking killed was picked up and turned into a comment about smoking guns, about men not guns killing people, about massacrers and homophobia. By the time they finished their cigarettes, instead of going back in like descent people, a symposium was in full swing on gay men and how in darker times they would meet at strip-clubs to avoid suspicion. Somebody wondered about lesbians, another answered that that was what sewing circles were for. And witch covens. Another said that in that case, since many organizations were ‘sausage fests’ (cringe), you didn't need to affect interest in women in order to be with other men alone, et cetera. I sneaked in eye-rollingly.
Anastas and Wingwoman stood watching a table football game. I zigzagged into position from which to begin a casual arm-stretching parade across Anastas' field of view. It was ineffective. Perhaps I had to be palm sized and kicking a ball to be noticed. Or perhaps Anastas was gay and used Wingwoman as an alibi to observe the men's muscular arms turning the knobby rods.
My trajectory ended at the bar. A girl opened up to me about the intricate relationship between her armpit hair grooming practices and a dick move of her boss, a story replete with turns of pride, disappointment, entitlement and rage. Our level of familiarity had long been a quiet ‘I've seen you somewhere before’ nonassociation. It was too much to take in. It held me back while I looked for the most promising group of friends to flee to.
Anastas &co appeared a few spots over, to the rescue of the damsal in distress, I naively thought. His eyes and hand followed the bartender whose attention he couldn't hail. He had definitely seen me but didn't say anything. Rude. To avoid a fourth repetition of the hairy saga if anything I excused myself and stepped over.
Anastas was unready even for a hug. I topped it up with a smooch on the cheek. Then I asked, ‘where've you been? The party's almost over.’ Wingwoman should have thanked me for exposing Anastas' true colours. Instead she glared at me and I glared back as Anastas was getting three Irish Mules.
I had no choice but to accept the cocktail. I already saw before me how fairytale-like it would end up for the second time out of three with a makeout sesh and waking up alone and wondering. If I refused I'd never find out the truth and one point to team Wingwomen. Besides, it was a free drink and whiskey at that. I didn't like whiskey yet but figured it was an acquired taste that I couldn't afford.
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly touched copper mugs.
I introduced myself to Wingwoman. Anastas said, ‘now I know your name.’
Wingwoman asked (enviously?), ‘where did you meet?’
I rushed to answer, ‘at a house party. A few nights ago.’ It was actually almost two weeks already but I wanted to impart a feeling of a hotly fresh encounter. ‘What about you?’
‘In the sweaty elevator,’ she said, laughed and bartered glances with him. Either too exciting or not at all. I didn't ask and they didn't tell. After an uncomfortable moment Anastas started about an Ivan he knew whose fridge vegetable compartment was filled with water to keep live fish. I said ‘crazy Ivan’ and bantered with Anastas as if we knew each other since forever. A recent hook-up or long time homies? KEEP WINGWOMAN GUESSING.
Anastas didn't blow my game and I felt like we were in the know. He spared the retorts of our first encounter. Maybe he was at his best behaviour for Wingwoman's sake? She did seem like the sort of nice and proper German lady who grew up in a half-timbered village and played the violin since she was five and had never disappointed her churchgoing parents. I involuntarily shifted to being handsy and awaited the moment she unclung for me to go after the truth.
Well, Wingwoman didn't uncling. Anastas kept getting us Irish Mules. I suspected neither of us had the constitution to keep up with him to begin with, but I had begun with a disadvantage of a cup or so of wine and a certain number of shots. On the second round Wingwoman and I formed an alliance after I embarked upon a MEN ARE SCHWEIN tirade. To his credit Anastas remained gentilmensky, and ordered a third round. Was I at the wrong line of work? How much TikTokers made? I had to chug up my second mule to stay in my undeclared competition with my strange bedfellow (figuratively speaking). I was curious about the extent of Anastas' generosity and hoped to hear some blasphemies from Wingwoman before she passed out (didn't happen) but by the fourth round (who was this guy?) they switched to German and I decided to cheat.
To make sure I retained my honour and didn't drop dead before her I staggered up and advanced to the loo as straight as I could. I locked myself at a cabin and stuck fingers up like a bulimic. I coughed a few times but nothing came out except memories of dinner and sad wanderings about how I had ended up this way. I resorted to a contingency plan, hosing myself under the water tap (turns out it doesn't really help against drunkenness).
When I returned, they were gone. I transported myself toward the sofa as if I didn't care, uncomittedly leaned on the empty backrest and reckoned that I really did. My heart sank, my head spun and my liver was writing a will. I wondered what was wrong with me and half listened to a conversation about finance and the tech industry on the other side of the coffee table before I reckoned that I didn't really know anybody there.
I turned away and saw Anastas closing the tab at the bar before two high glasses, Wingwoman at a close but not intimate distance on her phone. I acted before the charming effects of the stiff drinks could wear off. I came and kissed him. Just as I was forming regrets he settled into it.
To down the embarrasement I raised a glass. He picked up the other one and said, ‘oh, this one is for Wingwoman.’
I said, ‘???‘
He said, ‘I have to mind the sugar. Diabetes runs in my family.’ I couldn't tell if he was serious or not.
I sniffed then tried the drink. It was ginger beer.
He smiled and said , ‘what was your name again?’
‘I'll tell you if you take me home.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Didn't you take me home already?’
‘I offered to. You vehemently said no.’ Vehemently!
’I was drunk and could not be made liable to my words.‘ (I surely didn't articulate so well but he got the idea).
‘But no means no. No?’ What a gentleman!
‘Anyway, you know where your home is, no?’ I was not young enough to think that was a good idea but too old to stick to good ideas and too drunk to see myself to the door alone.
He was so uneasy when he said yes that I knew that the proper thing to do was to come up with an excuse, yet the alternative would be to patiently return to my flatshare, god knew how, with a power of will I didn't have. The last time I remembered coming home late I found them snorting whey protein (yes, REALLY) and making a raucous all night long like they were on cocaine. No, thank you.