A hens party, well past bedtime.
The tyranny of distance, as they say. Tonight, we vandalise the edifice of sacred unions. Sarah needs to piss. Amanda’s drunk. Jen’s been drunk all day. I slip outside to find the Milky Way, get hit with Lena’s coked analysis of babies, blow jobs, pegging, wedded bliss. I’m no one’s mum. I itch in lingerie. Where you guys are, it’s daylight, just past two. Nobody here would waste her drinking time and sell out half her mates to get a line. Scribbles. Silence. This is what I do. My girls, good girls, fulfilled in their existence. I’m wasted, but I can’t forget the distance.