Reason 1 – they don’t even want to know our names

It was an Easter Sunday evening a number of years ago and I had met a friend, Emma, for a few drinks in our local bar. Emma and I had been good friends throughout university, and had remained in touch while Emma had spent the previous two years galavanting across Europe in pursuit of men, or as she called them “life-experiences”. Since neither of us had any qualms of spending the Easter Monday in bed with raging hangovers, we decided that the most pressing need we had was to rekindle some old university memories when Sunday worship meant a good few hours in various bars (or other dubious establishments) trading our hard-earned Austudy funds for heavenly amber fluid. The incidence of Monday-itis once too often in my post-university “real job” meant that I was no longer ever caught out after dark on a school night – I was desperate to enjoy the evening to its optimum.  

After a solid four hours of sipping Stella Artois (our tastes had matured somewhat from the ill-tasting “cheap piss” of university days), Emma suggested we take the revisitation of our student lifestyle one step further by venturing into the city centre to a less than salubrious venue. Here, she argued, we could continue drinking, dance to a few tunes, and perhaps if we played our cards right, engage in some scintillating conversation with members of the opposite sex. I had finished the last of my drink before she had even finished her sentence.

 

At the “establishment” (it would be unfair to other bars and clubs to put this hell hole in the same genre), our drinks moved from beers, to spirits and mixers, and finally, in the telltale sign that the night is well and truly messy, to shooters at the bar. Emma and I chatted to a range of men, of all shapes and calibres and generally laughed all of them away at some point of the conversation. Until Reason 1 sidled up beside me and asked me how my night was progressing. At first I laughed and explained that I was in the worst possible bar I could possibly be in, in the worst possible state I could possibly be in, drinking the worst possible drink I could possibly be drinking, with the worst possible influence I could possible have dancing along beside me – but other than that was having a grand old time. Reason 1 laughed along with me, pointing out that Emma was about to gyrate off the dance floor. I giggled as I watched her lose her balance off the stage and fall into the arms of a starry-eyed admirer. Then I turned to face my speaker. Reason 1 was tall, good-looking, with a foreign accent and a nice shirt and trouser ensemble going on. I was pleasantly surprised. Reason 1 was also keen to buy me a drink. Who was I to refuse?

After a number of drinks and some fascinating conversation that I had lost hope of actually having (okay, so maybe my drunken conversation wasn’t fascinating, but it’s my story), Emma staggered over to give me her intoxicated endorsement of my new-found friend. “He’s decent,” she whispered hoarsely, well within earshot of Reason 1, “and this is a very indecent bar. If you don’t want him, I’ll have him.”

Reason 1 dragged me onto the dance floor to impress me with his ass-shakin’ moves and I giggled along beside him as I did my best “woman-pushing-wheelchair-up-hill” impression. After a song finished, Reason 1 insisted that we re-attend the bar, pulling seats up for us to sit down onto to continue our previous deep and very meaningful discussion. We watched Emma successfully ward off leery contenders and chatted intimately about where we had come from, and where we hoped to go. I was into this guy in a big way. Tall, dark, handsome, foreign – surely I could forgive a small infallibility like being in this place on a Sunday night – after all (and the thought struck me like lightening) I was in this place on a Sunday night… Surely, Reason 1 and I were destined to meet! And fall in love! And live happily ever after!)

At about 4am, Emma decided that it was time for us to make an exit (before our night really turned low-brow!!). Reason 1 joined us at a burger shop – a continuation of our university tradition – and asked if we would both like to join him for a drink back at his hotel room. Alarm bells went off in my head and I wondered whether he was assuming that Emma and I were “special” friends, when Reason 1 added, “it’s a suite, so after a few drinks, if Emma wants to stay, we can pull out a lounge to make a bed.”

            We staggered the thirty metres or so to Reason 1’s hotel (offered some explanation as to why he was in the house of disrepute, no such excuse for us, I’m afraid), and when we got upstairs, both Emma and myself decided it was better to sleep rather than punish our bodies with alcohol further. Reason 1 agreed that he too was tired, and got to pulling out the makeshift bed for Emma. As we sat watching him work, he also presented us with a T-shirt and some shorts each to wear to bed. Emma and I both looked at each other knowingly – secretly congratulating ourselves that we had found a nice, considerate guy – who would have thought?

            I changed demurely in the bathroom (I’m really not that kind of girl), and upon opening the door, clambered into bed beside Reason 1, explaining that I was really not that kind of girl. Reason 1 smiled his lovely smile and told me to relax – after all, he assured me, he really wasn’t that kind of guy.

            I melted into my pillow at Reason 1’s sweetness and said a small word of thanks to the powers that be for my luck. “Thanks for letting me find…” I smiled to myself, before stumbling across one small detail. I didn’t know Reason 1’s name.

            Um…

            I sat up quickly on my pillow and leaned over to push a stray hair from Reason 1’s forehead, before leaning down to plant a wet one on his lips. “You know,” I laughed (more from nerves rather than actually humour), “you’re probably going to think this is quite funny, but um… you told me your name about five hours ago and um, I can’t actually remember what it was. What is it?”

            I was slightly embarrassed but my fears were quickly allayed when he said, “Oh, babe. No problems. It’s Jonathan. Don’t worry about it.”

            I dropped back down onto my pillow and lay still for a while in silence, glad to have gotten that out of the way. Then a thought struck me. I closed my eyes tightly and could still hear a ringing in my ears from the club’s sound system. I tried in vain to sleep but the doubt niggled away at me until I just had to ask, “And.… just out of curiosity, Jonathan, do you remember my name?”

            Jonathan touched my arm, stroked my cheek, and looked deep into my eyes,                                                                                            

            Ok. I wasn’t offended. After all, I was the one who had admitted to not knowing his name in the first place. But was he going to ask me my name? “Do you want to know what my name is?” I asked.

            Jonathan withdrew his hand and rolled over onto his back, sighing audibly and rolling his eyes to the heavens. “Not really,” he said loudly – all of the previous loveliness and emotion lacking from his voice.

            I lay still, my eyes agape in disbelief. Surely I had had too much to drink and wasn’t hearing this right!

            “So,” I continued, “You’re not going to ask me my name?”

            And lo and behold, Reason 1 answered, in his once lovely, now hoighty-toighty English accent, “No. Quite frankly, I don’t care for these games.”

            Right. I let out a small whistle as I collected my thoughts. Right.

            Being a girl with a small iota of self-respect, I got out of the bed I was lying in and redressed in my clothes smelling of Eau de Tabac. Jonathan watched me dress, and then watched me struggle to rouse a comatose Emma and did not utter another word. The promise of breakfast, lunch, dinner and romance were well and truly forgotten, along with my name, which he didn’t even want to know.