“I mean, imagine having to micturate in a row, alongside other men, strangers, acquaintances, friends even? It must be dreadful.
Just think how odd it would be if we had to display our genitals to one another when we finally reached the front of this queue!”
She belched, very gently, and stared with uninhibited frankness at my scars. I turned my head away.
“You’re a bit mental, aren’t you?” she said, not in the least aggressively, but slurring her words somewhat.
It was hardly the first time I’d heard this. “Yes,” I said, “yes, I suppose I am.”
She nodded, like I had confirmed a long-held suspicion. We didn’t talk after that.
When I returned to the function suite, the mood had changedthe pace of the music was slower.
I went to the bar and bought myself a Magners and a vodka and cola, and, after a moment’s thought, a pint of beer for Raymond.
It was quite tricky to carry it all back to our little table, but I managed without spilling a drop.
I was glad to sit down, after all the jigging and queuing, and finished my vodka in two gulps—dancing was thirsty work.
Raymond’s denim coat was still slung over the back of his chair, but there was no sign of him.
I thought he had perhaps gone outside to smoke. I had a lot to tell him, about the dancing, about the queue lady, and I was looking forward to doing so.
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