Today, I have been someone's girlfriend.
It was a hot night. Humid. Stuffy. We took a break outside, away from the crowds and into the smoke. I don't mind the smell of tobacco, in fact, if it wasn't so frowned upon, I might even say I kind of liked it. Hell, I can't pretend I didn't long for a drag on a cigarette in recent stress-filled times. But I resisted, of course, because I'm a good girl, most of the time.
So, we went outside so that he could smoke and I could get some fresh air. We stood to one side, him in his dark jeans and indie-rock cardi and me in my princess dress. And a couple of guys came to chat, you know, as drunk people have a tendency to do. They were talking about random stuff, full of bravado and arrogance and made the natural assumption that we were a couple. While one was telling his friend to leave us alone so we could get it on, the other was trying to convince us that we should split up, telling him that his girlfriend was dragging him down, that he was an eagle and I was his anchor, tying him to the ground when he needed to fly. It was a beautiful metaphor and I was living a beautiful lie.
Still, we played along with the pretence and it was fun, in the surreal and bizarre way that the injection of alcohol brings to many situations. He referred to me as his girlfriend. It was nice. Not because, you understand, I am actually his girlfriend. Nor because, you know, I would want to be his girlfriend. But because, on this warm Summer's evening, this pretty lady was someone's girlfriend. I don't want to pick up a random guy in the smoking area of a city bar. I don't want to be chatted up by every man who likes the look of my face and wants a body for the night. I want to be someone's girlfriend. That would be nice.
It's raining today. Quite a lot.
Semper Fidelis
