Two women sit at a bar, one hurling down yeasty pots of undergraduate-priced beer with the guttural abandon and undisciplined bravado of Fred West, one sipping with self-consciously stylized daintiness at vermouth with a look of a gleeful Teutonic smugness.
They are friends, and talk of British comedy and British dryness and British food like steak and kidney pie, where pudding is metonymous with dessert and Earl Grey can only be quaffed with limp wrists akimbo. They have secrets. In a surprisingly pristine toilet cubicle lined with faux-Grecian tiling and pine-scented detergent, they share mercenary lines of powdered white illicit escapism, anxiously huffed up into flaring equine nostrils which shortly bleed in protest.
They boff the same man - a beard-stroking lanky gynophobe from the western suburbs who takes Bret Easton Ellis seriously and uses the phrase "making love" without the slightest sinuous syllable of irony - and both of them know it. They say nothing of him and his hairless maple-coloured abdomen, and smoke and smoke until they look at each other with the kind of soft jealous paralysed anxiety that only women that incestuously detached from each other share. They look at each other like ex-Kapos.
The beer turns into self-indulgent paranoia and the vermouth cavorts into fanciful notions of settling down in Croydon in bourgeois Stepford zombified Xanax repose. One woman's navel twists into the other's throat, aping some sort of perverse umbilical cord that links them only through that puzzlingly hairless man who named his border collie Precious and the hands with which he touches them both without washing in between.
Vermouth and beer; the Earl Grey is cold: who finishes her drink with a head intact?
They are friends, and talk of British comedy and British dryness and British food like steak and kidney pie, where pudding is metonymous with dessert and Earl Grey can only be quaffed with limp wrists akimbo. They have secrets. In a surprisingly pristine toilet cubicle lined with faux-Grecian tiling and pine-scented detergent, they share mercenary lines of powdered white illicit escapism, anxiously huffed up into flaring equine nostrils which shortly bleed in protest.
They boff the same man - a beard-stroking lanky gynophobe from the western suburbs who takes Bret Easton Ellis seriously and uses the phrase "making love" without the slightest sinuous syllable of irony - and both of them know it. They say nothing of him and his hairless maple-coloured abdomen, and smoke and smoke until they look at each other with the kind of soft jealous paralysed anxiety that only women that incestuously detached from each other share. They look at each other like ex-Kapos.
The beer turns into self-indulgent paranoia and the vermouth cavorts into fanciful notions of settling down in Croydon in bourgeois Stepford zombified Xanax repose. One woman's navel twists into the other's throat, aping some sort of perverse umbilical cord that links them only through that puzzlingly hairless man who named his border collie Precious and the hands with which he touches them both without washing in between.
Vermouth and beer; the Earl Grey is cold: who finishes her drink with a head intact?
VIEW 10 of 10 COMMENTS
drake:
I also indulge in The Superficial now and then. 
janemillicent:
He doesn't wash his hands in between? How obscenely bad mannered! I suppose he also doesn't change his sheets? Appalling! What on earth are they teaching at Scotch these days?