Monday 16 March 2015

The Aftermat(c)h


I remember the final whistle but the evening spiralled into a blurry haze. There’d been the elation, the hugs and kisses with strangers who were brothers in red scarves. Then there’d been the analysis as we each recounted our favourite moments of the game and named our man of the match. For me it was Warburton, the boy was everywhere. Listening to us it was like we’d all watched different games, our opinions differed on the minutiae but the fact remained we’d won and we had an endless supply of Guinness to celebrate. I remembered the backslaps and commiserations with the Irish contingent who were sporting in defeat, and then belting out songs in our croaked voices, lubricated with yet more Guinness.
I’m not sure how it happened but after the singing I found myself chatting excitedly to a fair maiden in a Wales scarf. She was from Hirwaun or some such valley town that I’d vaguely heard of. She had eyes that you could fall into and I was teetering on the edge.
‘Orrrr wasn’t Halfpenny brilliant?’ she said, her accent broader than the Champs Elysee. ‘My man of the match.’
‘Orrrr mine too.’ I agreed, I was getting more Welsh as the night wore on. 
‘An’ the defence man, it was out of this world.’ She said, her face growing closer to mine.
‘Class.’ I said. My tongue lashed out and caught hers as it snaked towards me. We were clamped in a passionate embrace, oblivious to the hoards of rugby fans around us. One of my hands roamed over her back while the other kept my pint steady. She did the same, not spilling a drop despite the fervour with which she was kissing me.
I’ve no Idea how long we kissed for. It may have been five minutes, or fifteen, but we were interrupted by a buzzing coming from her jeans’ pocket. She pushed me away smiling, her lipstick smeared on her face and I guessed on mine too.
‘I gotta go,’ she said looking at her phone. I felt myself droop a little, I’d been hoping she was coming home with me that evening. ‘My boyfriend’s waiting outside.’
I looked at her askance, seconds ago she’d been nigh on snogging my face off and now she was telling me a boyfriend was metres away.  She gave me one last peck on the cheek and skipped away.
Now thinking back I could remember her eyes but not much else about the woman who for those few seconds was the love of my life.
‘Mr Williams you can go in now.’ The receptionist’s voice shook me from my memories. I smiled at the quirkiness of international day in Cardiff and headed for the door. I now needed to put my game head on. I knocked gently, took a deep breath and opened it.
‘Take a seat,’ the woman said in a posh Cardiff accent. I wondered where the Welshieness of Saturday night had gone. I may not have remembered much about the woman who I’d played tonsil tennis with 48 hours earlier but I knew I was looking at her now. I did as I was told wondering if she recognised me.
‘So why do you want this job?’ she asked, her face straight, not a flicker of recognition in those wonderful, blue eyes.
It’s tough being interviewed by a complete stranger who you’ve shared a passionate, drunken embrace with. It’s tough to concentrate on the questions when your mind keeps reminding you that she’d been feeling the outline of your penis through your jeans in the middle of a crowded Cardiff pub. I bumbled through the questions the best I could, blushing slightly at the thought of me clumsily fondling her breasts while still clutching my Guinness.
‘Well Mr Williams,’ she said. ‘We’ll be in touch by the end of the week.’
As I got up to go she spoke again.

‘An’ that kiss man, it was out of this world.’

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