(this part I love)

My phone starts to ring. I answer, excited to hear his deep voice.
‘My friend is having a movie night tonight in your area and I’m wondering if you would like to come?’
Ofcourse, absolutely, I’d be delighted, I’m so glad you asked, quite happily. I settle with ‘Yes’. I’m no good with strangers. Awkward, unsure and just quiet is what I generally am with them. But I still say yes.
We meet. You’re drunk. You introduce me to Ryan as I slide into the back seat. You apologise for your drunken state. I don’t really mind. Ryan parks the car, we step out and you excuse yourself. Turns out you need to pee…against a tree apparently. Charming. Ryan and I proceed and you catch up. I see you’re barefoot (this part I love).
It’s soup night at Ryan’s. I refuse to eat it. I’d rather eat dirt. Why would anyone want to take the privilege of chewing for granted and choose to puree food and sip it with a spoon? You bastard, you oblige me to do so anyway, pouring me a mug of soup. I look around at my surroundings; an old shop turned residential apartment in the inner-west of Sydney, long-necks of Resch’s, milk crates fashioned as seats, a sofa that looks like it’s covered in urine and therefore partly draped with an old bed sheet that appears to be stained with semen, coffee and sweat, eight strangers that look like they need a bath and a haircut. I suppose it seems fitting that you pour me a mug of soup and not bowl.
I take a spoonful and refrain from pouring the contents of the mug over your head. I can’t have anymore. The others move into the other room (this part I love).
We’re left there in the kitchen, talking. I sit lower than you, we sip wine, we talk nonsense. Well not really nonsense. It’s only nonsense in the sense that it is the way it is and neither of us can alter the subject at hand so we continue to talk about it anyway. You want to tell this person to get his shit together. You scarily confess that you agree with that idiot in the park that night, when he said you need to tell someone they’re being a shithead when they’re being a shithead and that their life isn’t going anywhere with that shit pulsating through their veins. I call you an idiot and tell you that he’s your friend and you can’t deal with a person in trouble like that.
Suddenly, I become very aware of the casual way your barefoot is resting on my knee (this part I love). The arch is placed so casually on my knee as we sit and talk, I can feel the warmth through my denim. For some odd reason, this is what resonates with me from this night. There is also the casual way you pull me up towards you and kiss me (this part I love).