One shot contest- The 12th Kiss

NEW BOOK

My hands are sweaty and my breath is short.

It gives me comfort to think about small, irrelevant, everyday sensations when I'm feeling down. When I first read The Stranger I hated it with a passion, I did not understand Camus' need to point out the fatigue our bodies feel after a long bus ride or the stickiness of one's skin when the sun is high in the sky. They're just bodily sensations that everyone has experienced, they're common things no one cares about. I wanted to read about dramatic things like heartbreak and betrayal. Now that heartbreak and betrayal have become a part of my life, I am starting to see that when everything seems pointless, the small, irrelevant things acquire more importance.

So my hands are sweaty, it's not summer and the sun isn't out. I'm in a room full of bodies, human beings, people. Some of them are strangers, most of them acquaintances, a few are friends. My breath is short because I've been jumping up and down on the spot, taking care not to step on anyone even if people don't seem to mind stepping on my feet.

When I got here and people were still on their first beer or shot, I took care to move my hips in that circular motion where you tuck your tummy in and push your butt out. I'm not sensual, my movements are not fluid, I don't feel the music vibrating within me or anything like that. But I try. Last year, my flatmate spent many hours teaching me how to move my body, how to emphasise the movements and curves of my silhouette with matching arm movements. I'm not moving my arms now, that would be too much effort. They're limp like cooked noodles' strings.

I chuckle, not that anyone hears or notices, and think back to last year when our go-to move was the tree and being awkward made our belly ache and our eyes tear up from all the laughter.

I miss them.

I don't recognise the song that's playing, my friends are singing off tune and I smile at Marlene and open my mouth as if to laugh. I never join in the off-key singing, I'm much too self-conscious. I wish I could lean against someone or something, a friend's back or a stone wall. Someone or something that will support me when my energy ends and fatigue kicks in.

There is nothing special about this party, the same people always show up or maybe they're the only ones I notice. It's early but I'm already dreading that time of the morning when people are too tired to dance, makeup is smudged and you can only find empty alcohol bottles laying around.

I signal to Marlene that I'm going out for a second, a minute, an hour and she nods. My top is too tight. I should have worn something different. One of my bra straps has fallen and my tights are itchy. I stare at myself in the back of my phone and attempt a smile. My curls have loosened. I still haven't learnt how to use the curling iron. I pull them back in a ponytail with a sigh.

I thought they would be here tonight. I wonder if I curled my hair, painted my nails and waxed my legs for their benefit. Not too shabby. That's what Mila would have said if she'd seen me before the party. Even as I think it, I know it wouldn't have happened that way. If things hadn't changed, she would have been the one doing my hair, helping with my mascara, making me feel sexy.