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Declan

I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You

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I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You

 

Yep I'm off women for life. I've had it with 'em. No more candle-lit discussions about psycho exes. No more feigned interest in another man's child. I'm finished with the second guessing; the forced compliments, and the "where are we going" conversations. I'm even through with passionless one night stands in provincial hotel rooms. From now on I'm a monkish celibate. Oh yes, it's the single life for me!

 

This looks like a nice bar. Lively, not a distant drunken stumble from the hotel. I'll stop here for a scoop or two. It is crowded though, a long thin room, crammed with revelers. Hey I like the atmosphere. Juke box blaring out an old Faces tune, gang of likely lads strutting around the pool table - marking their territory with a scattering of blue chalk dust, a pound coin on the table and a smattering of WKD and spittle as they speak. A long mahogany bar down the righthand side of the room is heaving but there is a spare stool there. That'll be my home for the night.

 

"I'll have a Guinness please, mate, and one for yourself," get the barman on-side now, and I've an ally for the night.

 

Let's get me bearings. Quickly scan the room - get the lay of the land. "Oh! Hello", my inner Leslie Phillips asks, "Who are you, my dear?"

 

And there you are - stood to my left, chatting and giggling incongruously amongst a group of gruff Neanderthals - work colleagues I guess. Tight, impudent, blonde curls bobble against your shoulder as you laugh. I like the way you're dressed, and my attention is helplessly drawn by the way the spray-on denim jeans accentuate your subtle curves. There is a deliberate casualness about your attire - as if you've taken great care to achieve the illusion that you are this beautiful all the time. And I get to imagining how you must look in the morning. Pretty hot I reckon - not like those pampered Barbies plucking and teasing away any inner beauty they possess and painting on fake faces before they can meet the day.

 

Hey hang on! I must catch myself. I can't let this go on. I'm off woman remember. I turn away, catch the barman's eye and order another Guinness. I am not going to fall in love with you.

 

When I next look in your direction your Cro-Magnon co-workers have departed and you sit, back to the bar with your elbows resting upon the brass bar rail, which is a little high for comfort - you are forced to arch your back so that your perfect breasts are impertantly cast to the fore. I follow your seaweed green eyes as they travel the bar, spending a moment sharing the pain of each lonely drinker or savouring the joy of every lively conversation.

 

What's that? Do your eyes betray a momentary flicker of a smile as I take my turn in the emerald spotlight? I don't know. Embarrassed I have turned away.

 

I feign an interest in the soundless situation comedy, that is playing out unnoticed on the television screen across the room; but all the time I am agonisingly aware of your movements -over the hubbub of the crowded bar I hear the rubbing of denim on denim as you cross and uncross your legs. Although we are separated by several feet, and other customers separate us; I exist in your personal space. I am caught in that place where lovers find themselves in the instant before their first embrace. I am enveloped in the warmth of the magnetic aura of your body and your feminine smell which, unencumbered by falseness of manufactured scents, evokes the freshness of a summer meadow. The salty tang of your sweat, I taste. Your sweet breath, I feel against my face and I hear the soft, insistent beat of your heart. Christ, I hope I don't fall in love with you.

 

I give it time and when I judge that your attention must have been diverted elsewhere, I look towards you again. You appear oblivious to my existence, as you reach inside your jean pocket to retrieve a cigarette packet. So tight are your jeans that you need to arch your back further and rise slightly from your chair to take your fags out. A procedure that leaves me transfixed. I notice that the box has become tattered and worn by rubbing against your thigh, and I am irrationally envious of it.

 

I should go over and bum a cigarette off you, maybe try to start a conversation, but I don't. I know I wouldn't be able to find the right words. What words could there be to express my thoughts right now. So I sit and I watch every movement as you place the cigarette between your delicate, welcoming lips, light it and then close your eyes as you take a long satisfying drag. As you exhale your lips appear to kiss an O of smoke into the bar, and you turn in my direction. A look of satisfied recognition crosses your face when you see that I am watching you and I know that this whole business with the cigarette, has been a performance for my benefit.

 

For the next half hour, no words are exchanged but we are in each others company. Our eyes play a game of cat and mouse where one of us will watch the other for a few seconds and then dart away the gaze is returned. I attempt to rearrange my features to look sensitive and intelligent, yet passionate and masculine. And gradually the moments of eye-contact grow longer and longer, until whole minutes pass before one of us looks away.

 

The barman calls last orders, and a mass of people rush to the bar. I lose sight of you, so I join the maddening press waiting to buy one last drink. For a time the barstaff are overwhelmed and it is ten minutes before I am served. I buy another pint for myself and a whiskey and coke for you. But when I look to where you were sat you are gone. Frantically, I search the room, you are nowhere to be seen and disconsolate I sink onto my seat with the terrible feeling that I think I just fell in love with you.

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Nice one Mr Declan. Been there.

 

Sorry to attempt to burst your bubble here but,

 

at the end of the day she's still Fag-ash Lil.

 

I bet she got one of those tacky tattoos on her shoulder or down her back. Branded like.

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Depends what the tattoo is, some are tacky, others are just plain sexy

 

The lighting of a cigarette is one of the most eroric things going, either that or drinking through a straw, it's to do with the pursing of the lips.

 

The sexiest word ever uttered by a woman is Plinth, ask a female to say the word slowly, trust me it is (As nicked from Robert Rankin)

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Look! I made her up and she doesn't have a tattoo. OK.

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No that would have been the tattooist.

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Look! I made her up and she doesn't have a tattoo. OK.

Well you created a pretty good image!

 

Stav.

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Cheers guys! When I posted this I was expecting only the ladies to like it and all the fellas to think it was soppy. But only men have replied!

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I've got to admit that I don't venture into the "clever" section very often, and heck know's why I did this time.... But I'm glad I did. A brilliant piece of writing there.

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It's a well known fact that women aren't keen on going down and this section is below waist line

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Sorry to attempt to burst your bubble here but,

 

at the end of the day she's still Fag-ash Lil.

Got to agree with you there Barri Garru...

 

And it was going so well up until then!

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