There was a bar and a girl.

I'm sort of a home-dweller, when allotted the time to be home; a perpetually single home-dweller at that, and quite happily so. That much stated, I don't at all have many 'there was a bar' stories to my name that don't include theatre goers, actors, and forcing myself upon them with awkwardly startling conversation. I just have the one.

Happy hour had brought out the cut-priced cocktails, and so naturally, being British in body and spirit, challenging myself to sample each and every discount on the blackboard was the smart thing to do. I'd been stood up two days prior to this by a friend of a friend of a friend who had heard so many wonderful things about me, so why not? The best advice I was given in preparation for getting my own back in a place he would neither see nor learn about was to drink. Drink, go to a bar, you'll be able to talk to anyone. It was ridiculous and it was impossible. Wear a dress shirt, unbutton the three top buttons, make sure you're wearing a black bra. In hindsight, I should have frantically noted all of this down for later reflection, but the dizziness caused by a need to slip into my pyjama bottoms and then bed was too strong to locate any sort of pen or paper. So it turned out to be a dress(, a bar and a girl).

I'm not too sure I should be using the word girl as opposed to woman, but I still call myself a girl on a regular basis, and find myself gob-smacked any time I hear the word lady without the word young as its preface. Woman. She was as out of place as I, and when she first raised her question to me, I couldn't quite work out where she was from or why she was talking to me. The possibility that a stranger be worried about the 6 empty glasses and half bowl of salted peanuts on the bar in front of me didn't occur. I've a hideously high reluctance to inebriation as far as spirits and mixers go. Woman. (A dress, a bar, and a) woman.

She was edging into the tail of her 30s, though her face looked worn in the sense she had seen more than her share of life, but there I was in my late 20s, seemingly coming across to anyone I didn't know as a lanky, mildly developed teenager. Once I spoke, she quickly remarked on how many youngsters there were that night; how pleased she was not to be the only elder one there. I preferred the first, but she was very nice, and I had little to say to anyone else.

At the base of her stool, by her foot, there was a green canvassed backpack. I promptly asked her what was inside. I know it's a breach of privacy, but considering I had bought the last three rounds and a packet of cheese and onion flavour Walkers that was now spread out messily between us. Luckily, there were no qualms on sharing every intimate detail with me. To my surprise, there was no smartphone, no computer. Crumpled up maps of London, yes, and a printed booklet or two bought from people on the street. Perfume, a dream catcher; a 2-for-1 voucher for the zoo. To be fair, I emptied my bag as well. Receipts, phone, more receipts, a playbill-- much less adventurous. I apologised.

Nonetheless, to me it was sort of a warped version of the Breakfast Club between two strangers, which is something of a habit of mine anyway. Likening experiences to films, books, plays. She left rather quickly after last orders, wishing me luck and I, her. There wasn't a silver earring involved, and the only thing on the sound system was melodic whinging over an acoustic guitar, but I left feeling empowered. Something of a novelty in this day and age if you let it be that way.

After that, I decided I would allow almost everything to empower me. Crisps empower me, women in bars with unwashed braids empower me; to a lesser degree, alcohol empowers me, work empowers me; love empowers me, Gary Oldman empowers me, red thread empowers me; a bus in London at 8am- let's not go that far, shall we? No, you're right. One step at a time. I'll do a bit of yoga before I tackle that one.

I'll be the one to do the standing up next time.

It all started in the flat I spend less time in than I do the car I don't own, writing out a birthday card I'd chosen for my father's 80th birthday. One thing out of the multitude of other Things that bothers me about store-bought greetings is that they don't capture what you really want to say. They provide you with a sticky label to tell you if the card is blank inside. I'm sort of wordy, two small rectangles of space isn't going to give what I want to give, and that's only after you get beyond the front of it that's always the same. Happy 80th Birthday (sports car, champagne glass, golfing gear, blue and white ribbons).

Picture of a frog in a flat cap, "Haven't Croaked It Yet!"

I buy non event-specific cards. This time around, he got a Congratulations on your graduation! and a five page letter front-to-back from daughter to father doing everything from thanking him for everything he has done for me to apologising for anything I may have become that he perhaps didn't want me to become, no matter how open he is to everything and anything this world has to offer. (Always did feel I got off lucky in the parental lottery.)

But death (hurrah, hurrah! I hear them cry.)

Did you know that being completely in acceptance of the inevitable isn't at all as peaceful as they say it is? To begin with, the majority of us are threatened more by the idea that the world will go on spinning without us and when you're faced with this sort of a reality - as it is, in large - because is there a world without you, really?

There is, but not to you.

In any event, prepared though I may be for what the future may lie on my desk so long as it's in the vain of nothing too happy that hinges upon another living being that too makes me happy, it's the loss of those surrounding me I'm having the most difficulty with. Loss in any form, but death is nothing if not the most final step, and I don't know whether it's the number 80 leading me to this or the videos of older people on youtube but I am ever so humanistically torn.

I always said I wanted to die before anyone I love dies. The Ex told me many-a-time how morbid such a saying was, at which point I lovingly directed her to A. A. Milne and she not-so-exciting-as-it-sounds middle fingered me whilst dangling a tea temple over a cup with a kitten on it, and so it's never really changed. If anything, the need has become more dire.

But then of course, to feel that way, surely one must have more than a half-empty bed. Or simply be hurtling towards Christmastime and its Yuletide glory, fretting each time your very much together father forgets someone's name when he calls to thank you for his gifts. It's going to be one hell of a holiday in the city. One to be medicated with all day rehearsals, nippy walks, good music, and some haphazard lurking around bars in the guise of an old perv (or the chap that presents the autopsy programme I've admittedly seen every episode of.)

And I'm quite thrilled to see 2013 come to an end in general. Been a bit strange, really. Like this mess.

This is where we lose GPS and resort to memory. We lived here once, younger and more free. I used to leave the house joking that I needed a tracker or some kind of tag to actually get me back to the village; in ways I still did, but with you as my walking map, the rest could wait. It was hard to wager. Did you know every street in the city? You'd say no, but to me it felt like you did. Literally miles away from where we had created our own universe, we sat on swings of a downtown Manhattan park; a jar of folded stars stretching my right hand to its limit. In my brash excitement, I wanted to follow the orange line for as long as we could. A modern day yellow brick road, in my head, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow would be that the old me and the new me would come together to meet the old you and the new you, mixed to perfection. Internally, of course, I knew how improbable that was on both sides, but if nothing else, we uh- we both still liked our stories hey?

Reaching to the floor with more effort than people whose feet touched the bottom at a stronger advantage than just their toes, I strained to place the jar to the right of me, head turned to see the silhouette created by the clock nearing 10PM and the street lights having flipped on at 7. I'd timed it. We'd been here a while, then had retired to grab some good old fashioned New York coffee (Americano, with less coffee than usual) before returning. I liked this place. Words weren't in me to explain why, though. An empty park, free of children and other people? Could be. Another place to internally peg as belonging to us; the Hudson lighthouse, the Portside Park willow tree, stars... love. So much for writing a record. For all my jokes, I still hadn't started. Two lines penned on a notepad application on my phone when I couldn't sleep upset the balance, only my heart was invested in itself, and that wasn't something I could pull away from. Put that into words, I knew that's what my therapist would say - they always say that, preceding the obvious - but I couldn't see myself indulging in another bunch of songs about heartbreak when we were both trying to rebuild the foundations to make it stay.

Against your advice, I hadn't put on a jacket. The sun is out! It's a real Spring day. Yeah, rationality had... kind of got the best of me, and I had to tuck my hands into the sleeves of my sweater to preserve a kind of warmth. I should've carried it. Fuck, I should've brought a bag. My silly North Northwest perceptions, fuck, how long will I have to be on earth until I realize not everywhere south of the border is warmer? And coming from the Pacific-- well. Balled fists rubbed at my eyes, starting to swing like an excited child. Grown ups swayed back and forth on swings, propelling themselves with their feet, have you ever noticed? Teenagers too, I used to do it back home in my youth. I was too cool to swing, however much I wanted to. "Hey," I reached over to prod your arm. "Let's see who can go highest."

\\\

I'd stopped questioning why the girl who once joked about Sesame Street characters now looked sheepish when I thought of silly little things to do, because sometimes, people do as they do and they can't explain it. You knew I'd prod at you until you gave in, and when you wrapped yourself in twisted, creaking chains and let go, a smile accompanied my acceptance of the jacket. We could share it, worst coming to worst; no matter how thick a person's skin was or numb their insides were in conjunction; the cold could get you. "I kicked someone once, never really dared to do the whole standing up thing..." As I swung the coat around my shoulders, zipping it up the second I could locate both halves of the clasp, I backed out of wanting to try it before I even knew it's what I wanted to do. Your swing still took your body in slower, smaller circles, and your toes caught my attention. We had to be lined up, after all. "--Kinda felt really bad about that for the next ten years--" Pausing, I gave your profile another quick glance. "Who does that? Who doesn't.. see a whole other person in front of them." It's like the last time I went to the liquor store. Trying to act cool, I tripped over somebody's cart and smashed the bottle of liquor I was trying to buy. Double out of pocket, at almost 31, I had come to begin to accept the fact I would never be cool, and with the realization, finally fully chickened out of pulling my legs up to stand.

I envied those people. You were having problems connecting to your inner child, and me? I was having the same ones I always had; problems connecting to actually having the balls to do something. This swinging idea would be us meeting in the middle. I got to be brave, and you got to be childish. Reaching over, my ice cold hand gripped your even-colder chain as I tried with all of my might to guide you back with me. I mumbled to myself as my arm started to ache, "Whoa, easy there.." It prompted you to take over. Toes behind the line-- your shoes were funny. Quirky compared to my old-looking brand new designer boots I'd bought in November and had never worn until I threw them in my To Frisco case. "Okay, what you gotta do is I count to three, then you pull back and kick your legs up high as you can, which. Ha. You.. everyone knows how to swing." It felt a little like teaching somebody to ride a bike. I gripped my swing. Heavy breath as my chest inflated to fill the jacket that was more or less the right size for me, give or take a little around the top. Short exhale leading to a shrug of my shoulders, my fingers twitched. "Surrender to the air..."

Who was I, right? A sage? Didn't sound bad to me. I loved that part of it. I thrived in that. I lived and existed and loved the empty, weightless feeling that I hoped we were on the verge of. "--and lay back like this," something I had to take embrace by doing so myself, arching my back less than any regular person would do, but more than I was, "and close your eyes." Like the cheater I was, I didn't wait to yell go before pushing my weight forward, extending my legs to gain height and I reclined what felt like so far back that if I fell, my head would split open. Maybe that's how I never saw that person. Maybe, just maybe. I could smell the metal of the chains reacting to the sweat on the palms of my hands, but in ways that soil could remind farmfolk of happier times, you smelled this and either pictures coins or a swingset. I did. Letting out one of my throatier laughs, I came back to a stop beside you again, my bangs covering my eyes.

"You didn't," I croaked through dry lips I had yet to soothe with a drink. In Vancouver, it wouldn't be safe to step outside in the early hours any time between August and May. I wasn't used to this. My skin was cloaked in sweat and the furthest I could see was a couple of feet in front of my eyes, everything else being masked by the blur of having convinced myself not to get up everytime I needed a drink. "Really." For some reason or another, I found amusement in replaying your shocked expression of a few seconds ago, in my head, laughing as much as I could make myself right now. My arms clutched my body out of habit, rather than to protect my body from the mythical fall cold that.. didn't really exist in California. "I've been awake on and off for..I don't even know how long. I needed either a drink or a hose, like, dowsed all over my body."

I extended a grasping left hand towards the ashtray of half-smoked cigarettes. "Nicotine before water," I stated with a helpless smile, envisioning myself in my head, grabbing it, flipping a lighter out of thin air and going through each of them one by one. Maybe even three at a time if I got desperate. The wear in my morning voice already proved how much they had damaged me, and yet, after quitting, I always went back. Regina was the same. My arm retracted, resting against my stomach and I backed against the door to stretch as much as I could, not being brave enough to stop my hands from clutching my overgrown muscle shirt to create a human starfish. "I should probably... eventually go and get a glass, though."

I reached for the pack and lighter before anything else. The grand gift that the both of them were, in unison. I nodded some, looking down as I fiddled with the top, to pull it down using just my shirt. It was less complicated than it sounded. Lifting the box up to my face, I picked one out with my teeth, dropped the box back in it's previous place and ignited the cigarette with a sigh of great satisfaction. "Depends on your idea of fun," I looked at you, quizzically; cigarette pinched by the corners of my mouth until I took it out. Smoke followed. "I had a sex dream. But it was a fucked up sex dream, because in it? My mum walked into the room and told me she'd made us sandwiches. So." I laughed. "Fucked up."