Hens (A story)

Photo by M. W on Unsplash

I can’t tell whether I’m looking forward to Mags’ hen-do brunch or not. I’d become so swept up in planning the event, that I forgot I was actually going. Both hen-dos and brunches are associated with shrieking women, damp cheeks, and mascara smudges — combined, it could be lethal. Although maybe I am one of those women prone to the sweaty excitement of girl time. Must be because of pheromones or something.

I woke up with an acrid mouth and a burning sensation in my throat after a few drinks last night. I flicked through YouTube, watching thirty seconds of a video, then skipping to the next one, or skimming through the video until it got to the point. I don’t remember falling asleep.

I run my tongue over my teeth, unwilling to go to the bathroom and actually brush them. I choke myself with deodorant, smoke two cigarettes. Then I leave.

I light a joint on the way, blowing thick curls of white into the sky. I just need to calm down, and then I’ll be ready to go. I need one drink, and I’ll feel fine. Hair of the dog and all.

I wander down the high street, watching pigeons peck at chewing gum on the pavement. A kid in a buggy waves at the dumb birds, clapping and kicking its feet. The woman tuts at the toddler, and I feel the disapproving click, as though she were my own mother.