The Death of Authenticity

I topped up my mug with merlot. There was a silk scarf draped over the lamp in the corner. I wondered if it was a fire hazard. Chit chat. Weed. Blur playing in the kitchen. Luke had gone for more beers.

Trust funds, holiday homes, private schools. They were his friends. His house. A guy called Bradley raved about parties in Cambodia. Others agreed. I decided to roll a cigarette whilst he presented to the room. A drunk story. A bin. A security guard. I checked the time. Then checked it again. No messages.

A couple next to me on the sofa, discussed the incessant use of virtue signalling and the death of authenticity because of the digital revolution. A girl called Winona passed around a zoot.

Luke walked in and a group erupted into giggles. I adjusted my skirt. Winona touched his shoulder. Wrist. He started placing beers into empty hands. I decided to go and have the smoke.

He looked at me. ‘You going out for a cig?’

I realised that everyone was listening, so I threw away ‘yeah’. It was nothing. He followed.

Outside our breath drifted up to the drainpipes and into the night. The backdoor had three steps down. We stopped at the bottom and turned towards each other. He offered to light my cigarette. A brown potted plant lay discarded by the fence. I pointed it out and he explained he couldn’t keep anything alive for long. It started to rain slowly. Water collected on his curls like a halo.

We talked about university. My new flat mates. He told me to get used to the mess. I told him he needs a haircut. He kept looking at something through the window inside. Then I started replaying what he said and wondered if by ‘get used to the mess’ he meant us. He changed the subject. We reminisced and avoided names of exes. Then we stood close, saying nothing at all.

The cuff of his shirt was missing a button. Someone broke a glass and everyone cheered.

Luke tossed his cigarette into the drain. The ember vanished. ‘I’m gonna go and clean that up.’

He stopped in the doorway and turned back to me, ‘you staying tonight?’

Answers flickered through my mind like a reel of film. Do you want me to? Because it’s convenient? Because I’m convenient? Then the image of waking up in that bed, and the loneliness, despite the company, and the empty bottles on the bedside table, and dirty hair, the journey home in second day clothes.

‘I was thinking of heading off actually.’

‘Stay for one more.’

I shook my head.

Walking home, I felt like I’d left a weight behind. The rain turned to snow. Empty roads. Houses with black windows. I began to run.