|by Amita Murray|
New Year’s Eve is always pretty shit, really. It is. The nightmare of finding somewhere half decent to go, navigating the transport options, finding a taxi home even if you can afford it. And after six years in
it doesn’t get any easier. Laura can
hold her own, drink along with the best of them, but there comes a point when
not taking recreational drugs becomes a serious problem on a night out. People love you but they can’t have a
conversation with you – even wasted it’s nice to know you can still talk to
someone. New Year’s Eve is always shit,
but this one is more painful than most. London
Laura can hear kids from the estate shouting at each other in the street below, friendly taunts roaring into excited cheers as their fireworks light up the sky above them all. Laura turns up the bottle of red into the stew, it mixes with the smokiness of the chorizo as she pours what’s left of the bottle into her glass. She stirs and watches the chicken turn an intoxicated ruby under the yellow glow of the cooker light.
The bell rings. “I’ll get it” and Laura can hear Carrie tripping in the hall, “fuck!”, and then the catch lifting on the door, “Hi!!” The girls chatter in the hall while Emma takes off her coat and then she appears in the doorway, another bottle of prosecco in hand. Laura smiles and takes it before being wrapped in Emma’s arms.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”