Until you came (Zarry) /English Version

37. Drunk

Harry

"Zayn?!"

I was completely surprised when, in front of the open door, a male figure clings to the door frame on wobbly legs.

"Harry," babbles a visibly drunk Zayn.

His upper body bends forward. He seems to fall into the house at any moment.

The otherwise perfectly dressed Pakistani looks very deranged. His trousers are dirty, his shirt partly hangs out of his trousers, some buttons are missing and his black, thick hair is tousled.

"Darling!" calls Gigi relieved and storms into his arms.

"What were you doing? Where have you been?", she bombards the poor, drunk guy.

He looks with glassy eyes at his hysterical wife, rolls his eyes and looks through her as if she were not present.

"Iii dddon't wwwant ttto tttalk ttto yyyou. Iii juust wwwant to talk to my fffriend Hhharry," he whines and tries to reach for my hand.

"Zayn"! What are you talking about?" the blonde screams indignantly.

"Nnno, Haarreeeh...Iii wwant tto ttalk tto Harry. Ggooo aaway," he replies in a harsh voice.

So that the situation doesn't escalate, I try to reassure his wife, who is now completely out of control. Taylor comes along and puts her arm around the young woman to calm her down. Zayn clings to the door handle and shifts his entire weight forward.

"Gigi, let me talk to him. Go back to the living room for a moment. I'll take care of him. Please,' I say to her and gently push her out of the hallway. Her blue eyes look uncomprehending.

"What? No way. What's all the fuss about you and Zayn," she angrily nagged.

"I want to know where he was and why he turns up at your place, of all places!"

"Gigi, please," my wife interferes now. "Let him talk to Harry. Let's hear what he's got to say."

I breathe a sigh of relief. Angry women like Gigi are really tiring. I think.

Zayn is now standing in our hallway, tugging the clothes hook and I have the feeling that the wall is about to collapse.

"What is the matter with you?"

My neighbour clings on to me, buries his face in my neck and I smell the alcohol.

"Zee, let me go," I ask him.

"Hhhaarryyy, yyou...yyou". He doesn't bring out a sensible word, but he tries to concentrate on it desperately.

"Where have you been?" I finally want to know.

I mean, it's almost three in the morning, I'm actually dog-tired and have to deal with a drunken Zayn and his hysterical wife. What could be more depressing?

"Ohhh, Hhharry... yyou looook so beautiful. Youour hair," he whispers confusedly, grabbing at my hair.

"Zayn, don't do that."

"Where were you tonight?" I repeat my question.

"Iii dooon't kknow," he says, looking with puppy eyes.

"You don't know?"

I am horrified. He can't remember anything?

"What does that mean, you don't know?"