It’s 3 a.m. and you’re British.
I think you said the word “cunt.”
It dripped from your mouth like drool, but I’m craving salt and weaving along the pavement toward a place you promised would sell me fries in the early morning.
Two minutes ago, I told you my name was Annie. Ten minutes before that, I said it was Jane. You believed me both times, and you told me you loved me.
“Bad memory” prevented the soft-L sound of my real name––which I had told you, so, so many times––from escaping your lips as easily as the word “cunt” did.
I think my name doesn’t feel the way “cunt” does in your mouth.
Tonight, I just wanted salt, a beer, and to fall asleep early. But when we arrived at 11:30, The Lexington was no longer serving food, and was instead booming with A-ha’s “Take On Me.”
You, a bug-eyed boy who had seemingly just discovered hair gel, were much less threatening than the men from the night before.
So when you pushed your way in between Stacy and me and baffled us with how you danced—to you, hips clearly meant knees—it made me laugh more than squirm.
And when you heard my voice, you figured you must have a chance.
You’ve probably read somewhere that an accent like yours makes you appear ten times more attractive than you actually are to someone like me.
I let you believe it and I let you tell me the story of your trip to America, where you saw a baseball game. I let you tell me that your name is Joe.
Do you actually talk like this? Or are you amping up the British for me? I find it hard to believe that “wanker” and “cheeky” naturally come out of your mouth this often.
You ordered shots until you couldn’t stand up straight. I let you use me as a crutch and wondered if you were this unpleasant in the daytime.
For no reason at all, I now felt responsible for you. I shoveled the shots you incessantly ordered down my throat so you wouldn’t collapse.
Talking to you makes my brain dissolve. I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or your aggression.
You’re leading me to the nearest McDonald’s. We’re a block away from The Lexington when I think of Stacy, still at the bar with a man twice her age.
Before we left, I watched him zero in on the lips that spilled out a Californian accent and the strands of strawberry blonde she twirled between her fingers.
Outfitted in jean shorts, he stood three inches shorter than Stacy in her snake-print ankle boots.
When she asked his name, he said, “Mafffeew,” and the fluorescent lights illuminated his projectile-spit droplets like they were bits of glitter.
Brown brick buildings flank this street, largely blocking the sky from view. At a gap in between buildings, through the knotted branches of a barren tree, I can see hints of a rosy morning. I’m angry that I still haven’t eaten a single fry tonight.
I thought it was 3 a.m., but it could be 4 or 5, or even 6. In London, the sun comes up early.
Your jacket hangs across my shoulders, reeking of drugstore cologne. It isn’t cold, but you begged me to wear it. Seeing your jacket sleeves look too long on someone else must make you feel bigger than you actually are.
If you weren’t so drunk, you’d probably be doing one of those practiced, self-conscious walks. One where you are aware of how your every limb is moving, aware of how the morning light washes your pale skin out. But now, you stumble with feet turned out and stomach leading the way.
When I realize that you’re leading me to your apartment, I feel a sinking sense of betrayal. We’re in a neighborhood now and the smell of chemically grease is absent from the air.
“Where the fuck are we going?”
You stop in front of a brown brick building, grinning.
“McDonald’s breakfast isn’t open yet anyway.”
I let the jacket drop onto gritty sidewalk and run the block back to the bar, to Stacy and her snake-print boots. Fry-less, but she won’t be angry that I’m empty-handed.
“Fat bitch!”
I like that you will never—could never—learn my name.