I think of how we got here. We weren’t even old enough to be in that bar but one minute we’re football spectators behind glass and thousands of miles away and the next we’re doing tequila shots and eating tequila worms. Or rather you did. You’re not even Scottish and neither am I but we celebrate the goals as if we were. Equaliser and tumblers aim for the roof tops. I didn’t make it to school the next morning: too busy walking from town to Broughty Ferry because you say didn’t go to the gym that day. Already there are sacrifices and lies. Too polite to tell the truth, too polite to say no.
More than a year later it’s gay bars and tipping barmaids and people watching. Observing others observe. We’re drinking Heineken, getting into the spirit. You choose this bar and I feel uncomfortable. I’m out numbered. In fact, I’m the only girl here and I feel awkward. I don’t even like this Heineken. Politeness, again. Passive aggressiveness and tension.
Now I don’t even know why we thought it would be a good idea to get the flight which was so early it’s still dark. We’re still sleepy and there is no life outside it seems. Everyone else has common sense. We’re alone and it feels nice.