Crazygirl Falls in Love (5 page)

I can feel the rest of the room sneaking
glances our way, especially the Gribblettes. The ladies like my
mancake, and that knowledge suddenly makes me feel oh-so
smug.
Yeah! Take that bitches, Penny’s in
da house!

I wish evil witch-boss Angrypants was here tonight. She might
be smarter, thinner, taller, more successful and earning thrice
what I do, but her fiancé-very-soon-to-be-husband ain’t no oil
painting. In the life contest of ‘Who Dies Happy’, I’d definitely
win with the Stranger by my side.

Chloe, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be appreciating our
advantageous situation (Antonio’s a bit of a babe too), because
she’s currently fighting with him, about gyms of all
things,

“They’re utter pants,” she’s saying, “Why would anyone want to
work out with a bunch of musclehead freaks?”

“What’s wrong with muscleheads? Hell, I hope to be one myself
one day,” Antonio’s English is much better than the
Stranger’s.

“Oh sure, they bully people off machines then monopolise the
cardio equipment themselves, leaving deep pools of sweat in their
wake. What’s not to love?”

“Pish posh,” Antonio jokes.

But my bestie powers on,

“And the absolute worst are those twats who think they’re
personal trainers just because they live at the gym, and try to
give advice to me mid-workout, saying things like ‘you shouldn’t
run so fast at the start’ or ‘you’re not doing those squats
properly’. Who the hell asked you, asshole?”

“Oh my god, I hate those guys too!” I
interrupt, a tad too loudly I think because I’m well sozzled by
this point. But it’s true. I
do
hate them. Freekin’
know-it-alls.

“I disagree.” Antonio starts again, “I work out with those
same guys and they’re great.”

“Whatever makes you feel special,” Chloe smiles sardonically
before taking another sip of her wine.

“It’s not about feeling special,” he hasn’t picked up on her
bitter-much sense of humour, “there is an almost perfect linear
correlation between time spent in the gym and appeal to the
opposite sex. You find me attractive, don’t you?” Antonio winks at
her.

“I beg your pardon?” Chloe replies (she hasn’t picked up on
his bonding-in-the-moment sense of humour).

Realising the situation that’s about to unfold (Chloe is
massively turned off by arrogance) I interject with my own brand of
humour – toilet jokes,

“I’m not a fan of gyms and I’ll tell you why. It’s the smells.
Between the chick sweating out the curry from the night before, to
the guy farting his way through his workout, to all the deodorants
they use to cover up their bodily secretions, unsuccessfully I
might add, I just can’t take the sensory overload.”

The table laughs, even the two hottie girls who are staring
death daggers at Chloe. Chloe sniggers then says something I’m not
expecting. Turning to Antonio and the Stranger, she unwittingly
opens up my X-file,

“Penny’s ex was a gym junkie. He basically walked around
asking people if his massively chiselled arms were properly
proportional to his humble ego.”

They keep chattering away and don’t notice
that I go silent. I don’t like being reminded of He Who Shall Not
Be Named, not just because he’s a scumbag and I’d rather forget he
ever existed, but also because of that horrible, terrible thing I
did all those months ago. I mean, it was just
wrong
guys, all sorts of levels of
wrong, as wrong as anything could be. And every time I think about
the Terrible Thing it feels wronger, so I’m going to stop thinking
about it now.

I feel a vibration in my bag and take out my phone. It’s
Mags.

Hi hun, sorry I bailed. Sam and I are going to grab a bite
down the road. Kisses.

I quickly key a reply,

No worries, have a great night. You’ll never guess who I
bumped into – the Stranger! Call you tomorrow x

Mags, Chloe and Emma all know about my
infatuation with this guy. I put my phone away and try to focus
back on the conversation. I sneak a look at the Stranger and notice
he was staring at me as I was typing. He meets my look, then starts
planting tiny kisses on my neck. Out of the corner of my eye I see
Chloe rolling her eyes but I don’t care. I’m floating again. Up,
up, up and away I go. When he pulls away I feel lightheaded.
Whenever he kisses me, even if it’s just a couple of pecks, I get
that song in my head,
I’m so dizzy my head
is spinning, like a whirl pool it never ends…

I pour myself another Sambuca, hoping it will keep me
perfectly poised for the rest of the evening.

***

Several hours later we’re in Fabric and I’m drunkidy drunk
drunk drunk.

We left the Loft at midnight. As we’d walked out, Antonio’s
neglected beauties declared that they were leaving. They had looked
real grouchy. Fair enough, two random girls did just waltz over and
steal their mans.

The night is turning into a bit of a blur, but right now I’m
boogying to something drum-and-basey. I’m still amazed that I’m
dancing with someone who can only be described as a demigod. I’m
laughing loudly and sloshing my vodka Coke onto the floor. The
Stranger is equally plastered, but he’s got the good sense not to
talk too much.

“You know I call you ‘the Stranger’, right?” I pull him in so
I don’t have to yell over the music.

Maybe I pulled a little too hard because we both
stumble.

“Really?” He laughs and pulls me in for another of tonight’s
many hugs (another melt-worthy moment), “Why is this,
bellissima?”

“Because of the way you treated Lizzy.” I slur.

Lizzy was the Stranger’s ‘friend’ from two years ago. And when
I say ‘friend’ I mean fuck buddy. When Emma moved in with Arianna
and we met this group for the first time, Lizzy had been big on the
scene. Poor Lizzy had been madly in love with the Stranger, but
whenever anyone asked him about her he would laugh and reply that
she was ‘just a friend’. He told Lizzy from the outset that he
wasn’t interested in a relationship and never would be, but if she
wanted to explore the physical side of things he was ready, willing
and able. She had agreed, probably thinking he would come around.
You know, that delusional rationale so many of us use (including
myself), goes something along the lines of
‘If-I-hang-out-with-him-long-enough-he’s-bound-to-start-liking-me’.

He hadn’t. Though the Stranger and Lizzy were hooking up for
over a year he never took her out for a date. Everrr. There were
times when he would text her to come over to his place, but if she
didn’t arrive quickly enough would refuse to answer his door. There
are two sides to every story though, while she said he had refused
to answer the door, his version was that he’d fallen asleep and it
was an innocent mistake.

If a guy
ever
did that to me… God help them is
all I’ll say to that.

“You were very mean to her!” I yell over the music.

He looks legitimately confused. And the
thing is, maybe he has a right to be. Because maybe he hadn’t been
mean to Lizzy. He had refused to lie, refused to lead her on,
refused to fake the possibility of a happily ever after when there
was none. He had acted identically to the character from Albert
Camus’
The Stranger
(hence the nickname). Have you read that book? It’s a tricky
one to get your head around. The protagonist has no feelings, none
whatsoever. Does the fact he’s completely detached make him a bad
person? Inhumane, in the sense that emotions and passion make us
human?

Boy, I never have such D&Mey thoughts when I’m sober. All
this booze is really letting the creative juices flow!

But I’m getting wa-hay sidetracked. Back to the tall,
drool-worthy lad who is currently pulling my hips to lock in with
his.

“I was not mean, I was honest. I do not do
relationships.”

And before I can respond he is kissing me. A minute later he
pulls away and continues.

“And what about you, hmmm? I call you florecita.”

“Huh?” I ask distractedly. My eyes are seeing stars, that’s
how good that kiss was. I gulp down more vodka. I love this drink.
I love life. How can it possibly get any better than
this?

“It mean little flower.”

“Say what?!” I scream over the music, my mind still reeling
from the passion of that latest lip lock.

“Long hair, brown eyes. You are like sunflower,
no?”

I start laughing as I respond,

“In that case, you should feel very privileged to play even a
small part in my deflowering!”

I stop laughing when I see the Stranger frowning, looking
confused.

“That was a joke!” I shout over the music, “You know, flower,
deflower? It’s the same name? One is a pretty thing that sprouts
out of the dirt and the other one is... you know!”

I’m met with another blank expression, and realise I’m
probably not explaining things very clearly to an
English-is-my-second-language speaker. I try again,

“Doing da boom boom?”

Oh my god, stop talking Penny you are such
an idiot sometimes!
For once I listen to
the logical side of my brain (which apparently is the right side,
the left is Professor Emotional) and shut down the wave of
incoherent, battered rambling I’m so prone to. Me and my big mouth
are *this* close to ruining what’s turning out to be the greatest
night of my life. We continue dancing and after what feels like an
hour (but is probably more like a few minutes) I stand on my
tippy-toes to eye the bar where we left Chloe and Antonio. There
they still are, still talking. Hmmm… interesting…

My mind wanders as the tunes switch from house to trance. The
Stranger is a very good dancer, and somehow his carefree, loose
moves are working with my stiff, retarded ones. I’m no Beyonce, not
even close, which is such a shame because I love to shake it like a
Polaroid picture. Get low! But with the Stranger even my robotic,
inelegant moves work for once. We click when we move. It’s a nice
rush.

I take another sip of my drink, which turns out to be the
straw that breaks this dipsomaniac camel’s back. My vision darkens
as I feel the Stranger pulling me in.

“We go back to my place now,” he purrs.

“Damn straight!” I reply.

My phone howls into my ear. I jolt upright and fumble in the
creases of the sofa where I can hear it ringing. What time is it?
2:00 p.m.? Oh my word. I must have crashed after that harrowing
walk of shame. I find my phone and check who it is. Ah,
Emma.

“Hello?” I croak.

“Hey sis, did I wake you?”

“No, you’re right. I shouldn’t be sleeping so late anyway,
what am I, fifteen?

Emma laughs. She sounds happy.

“So what’s news?” I ask her.

“Just got back from rock climbing, and… I want to tell you but
you have to promise not to judge?”

“Okay, no judgement here.”

“I saw Dublin last night.”

“What?” I instinctively squint my eyes in disapproval, though
there’s no one to squint at. I’m in my apartment, all
alone.

“I have needs and he fulfils them. Well, most of
them.”

Halfway through her story of how Dublin-Wanker wooed her back
with a candlelit dinner, half a dozen roses and jewellery (in my
opinion a total cliché, but whatev), I get a queasy feeling in my
stomach, a feeling that starts to rise...

“Can you hold on a tic?” I interrupt, running to the bathroom
before hearing her reply, reaching the toilet just in time. I hate
hangovers and I hate myself even more for having them over and over
and over again. Why do I do this to myself?

A few minutes later I’m back in the lounge room, and feeling
much better too.

“Sorry, go on?”

“Geez Pen, what in the world happened to you last night?”
Emma’s concerned voice coos through the mobile.

Sometimes she sounds eerily similar to me. We talk the same.
Not just the same Aussie accent, but the same pitch. Although
unlike me she never swears, she’s too much of a goody-two-shoes for
that.

“I had a big night, Em.”

I describe what happened at the Loft and Fabric, then launch
into the not-very-impressive shame spiral of the morning. The long
and the short of it is that I woke up at the Stranger’s place
feeling shockingly unwell. My unsettled stomach took over (I’m well
known for my inability to hold my drink, most hangovers involve a
chunder or two. Or three or four) and a few minutes later I was
riding the porcelain express in the Stranger’s tiny
bathroom.

Eventually he had started rapping lightly on the
door.

“Stop that pounding!” I had yelled into the toilet bowl, my
head too sore and throbby for contemplation.

He had stopped knocking, but then whispered urgently that he
plays football Saturday mornings and needed to leave shortly. I
took that as my cue and left, post-haste, but not before insisting
he get me some aspirin. He joined me in a glass. He was probably
feeling rather fuzzy himself, considering how spazzed we both got
last night.