The Bride

“What’s your name?”

She slurs at me, eyes trying to focus on what looks to be some point behind me. Most of her energy is spent trying to balance on the high bar stool. She holds onto the seat with one hand between her legs like a rodeo star while a bottle of some sickly coloured alcoholic drink is gripped in the other.

She is dressed in a white ball gown, with an L plate stapled to it, flashing devils horns in her glittery blonde hair and a balloon tied to her wrist that says “good luck” on it.

“mines Helen an’ I’m getting married, nex’ week this is me hen party … the last chance to cop off before I settle down”

She breaks into a fit of giggles before adding

“I don’ mean, I don’ mean it, I love Kevin he’s a lovely bloke drives a Lexus, getting’ married nex’ week”

She lurches forward and threatens to fall off the stool and I take a step back in readiness to see her fall flat on her face but sadly she manages to save herself at the last minute.

“What you say your name is?” She asks again confused this time more than anything as if she has forgotten it.

“I didn’t” I reply with a smile that I hope says and I won’t either.

“I’m getting married nex’ week” She grins the pupils of her ice blue eyes are totally different sizes; I doubt she can see much at all.

What I think happens next is she tries to lean forward, all seductive like and goes to run one finger down the front of my shirt. What actually happens is she leans forward, slips and grabs my shirt ripping it as she falls off the stool.

The barman looks at me then the prone Helen and simply says

“Get that out of here”

I look around in hope of spying the rest of her party but nobody looks like they want to lay claim to this bride to be.

Begrudgingly I help her up and walk her towards the door thinking how did this happen? I had only gone out for a quiet drink and was planning on having a pint or two before grabbing a pizza and heading home.

And now here I am propping up a total stranger, who now by the way is announcing that she is going to be sick.

I park her onto a bench and tell her to take deep breathes, in through the nose and out through the mouth.

She looks up at me, smiles and says

“You’re a really nice blo-“

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence as she starts to heave, learning my lesson from the bar stool dive, I take a few steps out of the way.

As much as it repulses me, I watch as she slumps over and what looks to be gallons of piss coloured liquid spills out of her mouth, down the front of her dress and splashes onto the pavement.

When she is finally empty, she wipes her mouth, spits a glob of stringy phlegm bile hybrid into the impressive lake of spew at her feet, blinks a few times as if to clear her head, smiles and says.

“Want me to suck you off?”