"That's me out of the mix then" she said with eyes that went all ways except the synchronised way.

It was just a party, party to drunkenness and frivolity and she for one embraced it with open arms and mind. The fact that her brain seemed to shrivel at the mere mention of sensibility alluded her. She had a keyboard at home! The world was her oys...ois...ost... The world was also spinning round and round and her feet hadn't touched the ground in over an hour! And it had nothing to do with shellfish!

She was thinking about thick red socks and their comfortable fluff and how she would be able to drift into them when she got home, and also how they are far more friendly to ones aching toes than a lot of the men she knew. She was actually quite glad about her latest revelation re. socks because her feet hurt like hell! What's with four inch heels? Why do women insist on giving themselves Achilles Tendonitis simply to make their calves look sexy? Isn't it an anomaly that we rip the hell out of our legs simply to make our legs look better?

Her mind ambled over to the corner where her friend, at least she thought it was her, was chatting to...........the enormous lamp shaped like a black Cat!

"WOW THIS IS REALLY HARD" she thought. "Don't you wish once in a while that you could be a fly on the wall of a party and then go and tell all you fly friends what's going on? hahaha" Then she decided it may not be a good idea because Flies don't have ears. Just another thing that won't listen to her!

She decided that the time had come for her to vacate this situation and maybe go home and bang out a really interesting riposte on the keyboard of doom to her friend in a place she can't remember the name of.

She left alone and her bunions screamed. And her house seemed empty and cold.
She gave the cat milk and she checked her messages "no messages" came the loud and vulgar retort.

She sits at the computer. And sits. And then slumps a little because it's easier on her drunken neck. And she picks up her mirror and checks her eyeliner hasn't migrated to her chin. It has. Then she unplugs the PC without turning it off properly and sits with pen in hand. The pen went one way and her hand went the other, a trick she had learned one night, probably at that party.

She writes.

She passes out.

She wakes up the next morning to find a note by the side of her bed. The note is written in spidery handwriting that she doesn't recognise.

It says "I love you"

Learn more about this author, Jem Gedwing.
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