Even after the 'Psycho' routine

I meet the Italian hydrogeologist for drinks and stand-up on Friday night. I arrive in the city on time, but a concurrent football game, bad signposting, a few wrong turns and a place with no visible doors which utterly baffles me leaves me an hour late, and by the time I arrive, I have a sore throat from screaming at motorists, cussing out the urban planning, the ten minute wait at one important traffic light, the train that nearly squished me and the utter lack of parking anywhere. I am so high-strung that I gulp down an entire glass of white wine without inappropriate giggling, declarations of love or attempting to blend in with beetroots, officially a world first.

The Italian is lovely, with a runner's lean, rangy build, but I am thinking of Captain Starlight and I am puzzled how someone quite as interesting as the Italian can be simultaneously so dull. You'd think that someone who’s cycled across America solo and chases tornadoes for fun would be more exciting. But, no. Also, he peers at me rather like a pelican I once saw at the zoo. After half a glass of wine, I'm actually quite pleased about being late.

The first comedian was terrible. After one truly terrible attempt at a funny story which fell flatter than Fatarse's singing, some wag in the audience played the sound of crickets chirping. That got a bigger laugh than anything the poor guy had said so far. It was only when he started making bitter, self-deprecating jokes about how awful he was ("What, no cricket sounds? I’m so bad even Cricket Guy's holding back out of pity?") that the audience truly started laughing. No wonder all of them were drunk as skunks.

Hachar calls me repeatedly during the truly inspired act by the third comedian, a balding sulking goth vampire in his 40's,and eventually, I abandon the Italian gleefully to go dancing with Hachar at the local gay hangout, where there are too many straight couples but a sufficient number of skinny languid boys and lipstick lesbians to keep things interesting. We gyrate and shimmy and slinky til sweat sheens our skin and we work out the week. Fabulous.

I have an appointment with a surgical specialist the next morning, where I get some excellent career advice and clearer direction.

The more I think about it, the more I realize: I'm not coming back.

I go on an emergency grocery run then set about sewing a new bikini based on fabric that I had bought on a whim with the intention of test-driving it before tomorrow. Somehow, I didn't think it would make the right impression if I flashed half of Freo my boobs.

Nutmeg and Fish arrive in a tumble of badly-fitting bermudas, T-shirts and flip-flops while I'm still frantically pinning it, having not sewn a single stitch. Drat. We set off to everyone's favorite beach and waited fruitlessly for the pet mope to show, which she didn't, for ages. I am intensely grumpy but was prepared to be sympathetic right until she tells me over the phone “"The staff at Tiffany’s are SO incompetent." Poof. Sympathy points disappear like Oprah's waistline. But a swim in the bracing surf cures the crankiness and by the sun sets, it feels like the perfect day.

The pet mope and I have dinner together, and over an entire chicken shared between us, I realize that we've not hung out together outside of school for months. We talk about our favorite subject for ages (medicine), a passion I can share with only a few people. And sitting in the cold, watching her recount a story about dermatology, I realized with a start just how much I'd miss her when we graduate. It's funny when you overlook what's right in front of you.

"So what's the story between you and Captain Starlight?” she asked me.
And instead of saying "Nothing," like I usually do, I tell her the truth. She's the first person to hear it.

She asks about Fatarse. And I tell her. Not everything, because I don't think I could ever bear repeat everything to anyone who wasn't there ever again. But enough. And we share horror stories of what we put up with in the name of love. ("He bought me flowers from a funeral home!" "He staked out my house!")

If you can seal a friendship, I suppose that night did it.

We stay up til 2 am and then end the night reluctantly, and only because we're exhausted and we can’t string sentences together any more. We promise to catch up again soon. And hey, I guess I do have girlfriends here after all.