Dance With Me In A Whisky Dream

A memory and a missed chance at love, this story will make you feel all the feels. All of them. Time to break out the whisky.

"Reminiscences, like a fine whisky, should not be rushed. Nostalgia is performance art.

This is a story that has to start with an indulged savour of a splendid single malt, an 18 year Macallan or the 25 year Highland Park, and a long, deliberative misty pull on a cigarette.

Like all stories, it all began simply enough. Innocent even.

My flat mate demanded that I be his designated wingman for a young professionals social event so that he could chase someone in particular but make it look like fate was playing cupid. It would be a chance encounter at a night club on a dreich and ordinary Wednesday evening celebration for young lawyers. Down by the river, a fair hike from the city centre and not easy to get to.

Underneath the flyovers for the motorway bridge. Concrete jungle, florescent halos weakly spreading their goodwill round the dimly lit street lights. Footsteps echo loudly, but figures dart in the shadows. Unseen and unknown. Creepy.

“What’s in this for me?”

I was none too excited at the prospect of listening to the self-satisfied ramblings of legal nerds talking about their future financial prospects and then smirking when they found out I was still a student. And in the Arts Faculty no less. Studying History while others made it big. Fuckers!

“Don’t be so negative” I was told. “No one likes a sour puss. There will be lots of people there. Some free food. And drink too.”

I was so weak. Bought off so easily. A free sandwich, dry probably, and a pint of forgetful lager for a poor student. So I could help my pal get lucky. Wasn’t university meant to open the mind, expand the horizons?

Looking round a smokey, dark, dank night club, one hand on a tiny cucumber sandwich and the other clutching a plastic cup of shitty beer. Fuck this! And fuck my friend for talking me into this. And fuck me for allowing him.

Fuck me. She’s cute!

And there she was. Standing alone, looking bored, a little scared but curious. An interesting combination. Whilst I do like my women vulnerable and bitter when I am surveying the field, this beauty was a mix of confidence because she knew she was pretty, slightly embarrassed at being alone, and bored because the music was, frankly…..shite! What do you expect from lawyers?

I don’t normally march up to pretty women in the dark and interest them in my patter. Not a good return rate. My patter is not always all that good, so my friends tell me. And if successful, you can always end up with Stage 5 Klingons and lots of doctors visits. Anyway. This young lady looked different. Diffident, kind, gentle, and importantly, sober and hopefully sane.

So we started talking.

“I have a boyfriend,” she said.

“No worries” says I. “I have a girlfriend. I am not chatting you up. You looked as if your friends have done the same to you as mine have done to me… left us here on our own. You look kind and I just thought you might be fun to talk to.”

“Lawyer?” She nodded. “Why? You going to change the world?” She did not nod.

I said, “I don’t want to regret my life, or live in fear, boredom or by another’s leave. How about you? If I could grant you three wishes, what would you do?” Standard fare, right? But then, she talked about the struggle to be a dutiful daughter, a decent citizen, a good student, a faithful girlfriend. And the expectations of being a single young woman, and the first in her family to go to university.

“Tahiti!” “Say again?”

“Tahiti. Wouldn’t you love to feel the sand beneath your feet, swim in water whose colour defies description. Indulge your mind and body with the senses of being freed from bourgeois conventions? Live a loud life. Look around. Who do you really admire? The conventional? The ambitious? No creativity and individuality. All mouth and no trousers! Following a path set by mum and dad, defined by others and seeking approval. Always, seeking approval. Until they get to be the boss, and then they get to order others to follow the path. What kind of fucking life is that?”

She looked at me. More like studied me. I had questioned her plan, but she was amused more than annoyed with me.

We talked for the rest of the evening. For a 23 year old male and immature for the most part… I listened carefully. Not a word of a lie! I wanted to know very much what made her who she was. It was that intense curiosity you get with very few people – special people. We argued about politics and religion naturally. It was fun though. I walked her outside to find a taxi. Waiting in the rain, I gave her my coat. I felt like punching the cabbie when he finally pulled up. As I stood there, soaked, I watched the cab pull away, but there, through the rain drenched rear window, clear as life itself, was her face. Looking back, smiling and waving until she was gone. Had I really kissed her? Would I see her again? An ordinary midweek became a wondrous Wednesday. Filled with possibilities.

“Oh yeah!” I gloried as I skipped home through the puddles and the drizzle.

“Oh fuck!” What if my flat mate tells my girlfriend? I hoped he had been lucky. Not for the sake of his sad love life, but because of my now complicated one. Maybe it was one of those chance encounters you read about. A whisper of an alternative ending, another life to live? But most likely, back to reality. Not so bad really. But then, what does that say about the words that had come out of my mouth? About living a full life, never compromising, never surrendering to conformity? Just another bad boyfriend with a line of lying bullshit. Truth hurts!

It did not take long to find her. Stalking old school, before the internet. Standing outside her lecture hall and waiting like I was meant to be there. Nonchalance is hard to pull off when your heart is racing.

“Fancy a coffee?”

I would juggle my diary just for her, like I was doing her a favour! Playing it cool like. But not at all. Every gesture scrutinized for the slightest meaning. What seemed easy, talking about the meaning of life, was overshadowed by the illicit, the unspoken knowledge, that we were not free to act. Or at least convention dictated so. Forbidden glances heightened the nerves that told us we were fully alive, that at any minute, it could all be brought to a sudden halt. Fear and guilt would triumph over emotions unsaid. More walking in the rain. Coffee. Longing. Parting without the sweet, just the sorrow.

Weeks passed. I got ready to go home for the summer, to work and backpack. I offered one last chance to convince her that we should at least try to be together. We would first have to untangle ourselves from relationships that were getting very complicated. No go. “I couldn’t hurt my boyfriend” and “Let’s just be friends?” Fuck!

So I left, renting out my flat to my girlfriend’s best friend for the summer so she could pursue an internship opportunity in an unfamiliar city. I’m not such a bad person. At least I could focus on being less of a bastard boyfriend.

A fun summer slowly came to an end. An old friend won medals at the Summer Olympics. Backpacked through western Turkey for three weeks with my girlfriend. Refreshed, rededicated and refocused. I sent a postcard. Just for old times. Wish you were here…

Until I got back to university. I bumped into her almost immediately. She certainly seemed strange. Slightly untethered, afraid and unsure. Concerned obviously, I asked what had happened.

“I came to your place at the beginning of the summer. To find you. To ask you to give me a chance. But this woman answered the door. I thought it was your girlfriend, so I said nothing and left.”

“That’s great,” I said excited. “But wait… That’s terrible! That was not my girlfriend. She was just staying there for the summer. Did you not ask for my phone number? Did you try to contact me? I would have come over right away.”

“No.” “Why not?” “I was flustered. Scared. I thought you had moved on.” “Well I’m here now. Coffee?” “I’m back with my boyfriend.” “Awww… fuck. No!” “Sorry.” And she left. But she looked back in anguish.

I asked her out again. More coffee? We met. By the river, in a trendy cafe bar. She brought a male friend. For support. When he went to the toilet, I asked her, “Why is he here?”

“I don’t trust myself around you.”

That was an awkward evening.

And so it went. Through the winter and spring. I broke up with my girlfriend, finally doing the decent thing. She was bright, hard working, focused, determined, ambitious. She deserved better. She’s married now, wealthy and happy I hope. I moved on. At least I convinced myself of that alternative truth. But there was more coffee and strained silences. Far too much hidden, held back. Neither wanted to expose themselves. Talk about quiet desperation!

I met someone else. Staring that wild summer at the golden death mask of Tutenkhamun in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, I heard the war fever raging outside in Tahrir Square, chants of death to the enemy. War was in the air. Iraq had invaded Kuwait. Missiles were about to rain down fire and brimstone any minute according to everyone who saw me, the Crusader, on the street. Better run they said. The government will fall and you won’t be safe. Green eyes betray your origins, Christian. But I am stubborn. I wanted to see the pyramids, sail down the Nile, walk through the Valley of the Queens in Thebes, explore Abu Simbel. Rumours of imminent attack flew round every street corner. State media could not be trusted. What to do? So I sat down in the sanity of the air conditioned Hilton Hotel in Cairo where I could think and wrote a brief, intense note to a special girl back home. You never know what might happen. I left it on the table when I went to the bathroom. My girlfriend asked me about it a week later when it looked like war would start in hours. Here we go again. Lying bastard digging furiously.

Another return, another breakup. A new job, a new start. One more attempt….just one. For luck.

I sent a Valentine’s card. Simple. Meet me in a special place. For coffee. Lunch maybe? If I could eat anything. I will wait at the same time, every day for a week. Be there if you can. Love.

On the third day she came. From work. All grown up. But tanned, looking great. She apologized for being three days late. She had been in Kenya. On safari. As she took off her coat and I held her chair, I saw the glint, rather the sparkle. On her left hand.

“I’m getting married.”

“Congratulations.” Funny how you can say the opposite of what you mean and instantly regret it, but can’t really take it back without looking like a total tool. But I had lost her. Stories of giraffes and ligers, hippos and rhinos or whatever the fuck else roams the Kenyan plains. This time I wasn’t listening. I faked a simple smile. I think it ended up looking like a sad snarl. Admittedly, I was not at my best. I needed a drink. But no more fucking coffee this time.

Every now and again. With a good whisky to hand, in the darkness of my mind, I drift off to Tahiti and dream of the girl in the cinnamon dress I wanted to hold under the starless sky, the beach beneath our feet as we danced in the sand, risking everything, long hair flowing.

~Simpson

#thebad #startingover #missedchances