A Stranger In The House : the website of Alan Hubbard : A University Education
Party Hard
Same Mechanical Voice
A Fictionalised Study Of Social Interaction
Her hair was blonde like nuclear waste. It shined like atom bombs and oranges. Her breasts were like animal traps, tempting, silently waiting. She wore a mink coat which carried the screams of each evil eyed murdered creature that formed it inside it’s stitching. Her nail polish was slick like sculptured Yuppie hairpieces. Her eye lashes, spiky hedgehog spines waiting to pierce unsuspecting foreheads (or skins). Her lipstick was thick like peat bogs on Wednesday afternoons. Her lips had tattooed ten wine glasses already that night and were aching to spread themselves again. This beauty made you think of concentration camps. Why couldn’t he look away?
He was six foot tall; dark hair, blue eyes, a pillar box chest. His chest hair pretended to want to be curvy but was in fact curved smoothly, almost styled. He wore his heart on his sleeve...it kept getting caught in his shirt buttons. She looked at him, then looked away. “Paint the town and the bed red, Draw me back and paint my forehead, Paint the town and the bed red, Take my heart with my pulse and leave me dead” His unconventional chat up line fell unheard in the bustle of the party. The movers and shakers moved and shaked. The air was like a wall. Each brick hollow and empty. Tittle tattle mortar. She looked up again and caught his eye, keeping her grip on it she pulled him to her. He tries again to be heard: “Paint the town and my bed red,” She laughs dismissively and pulls him on. “Draw me back and paint my forehead,” She coyly looks away. “Paint the town and my bed red,” Her lipstick lips part, red flames sticking and licking at his face. “Take my heart with my pulse and leave me dead,” He reaches her. She speaks, finally, in a voice filled with petrol fumes and disjointed poetry: “Be a darling, fetch me another drink will ya?” He nods his head and turns away. Her voice was static like radio waves. Her voice was harsh like computer crashes. Her voice was cold like car crashes. Her voice was mechanical like all the rest that surrounded it. Each person's lips the same mechanical voice. “Paint the....” (Same mechanical voice.) “Town and the...” (Same maniacal voice.) “Bed red.” (Same mechanical vice.) He walks away. He spits in her champagne. He moves and he shakes and he breaks his heart again and again. It just keeps getting caught in his shirt buttons.You can e-mail David here
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