It’s been forty minutes since Kira smiled at me and I still haven’t thought of anything to say to her. I’ve tried to find words in pints of eggy lager but none have arrived yet Not in the first, second, or third, so that’s two quid seventy up the spout.

She’s been dancing for the last few songs. Her blue hair whipping about as Fred Durst’s delicate musings on chocolate starfish, and his complex applications of the word ‘fuck’, permeate the air. Every repetition is spat through her black lipstick and punctuated by her silver-ringed fingers. It’s hard to see why I’m struggling for inspiration in this poetic cacophony.

Note to self: Probably shouldn’t say musings, permeate, or cacophony when I do go over.

In another half an hour the lights will go up, and we’ll be shunted onto the street to take our chances with the crowd from the other club. To scurry for safety in hope we don’t get seen as easy prey for those in bright shirts looking to impress their short-skirted counterparts. Those of high heels and frozen toes, crouching over drains to spend giant pennies in the most polite way they can think of.

Another note: Don’t say counterparts.

I know words, loads of them, so why can’t I put enough of them in front of each other to break the ice with the only actual human female who’s noticed I exist since I walked into this place. Probably the same reason I haven’t managed to string a coherent sentence together in our English classes since the start of term. Whatever that reason is.

What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here. I’m a…

Yeah, probably shouldn’t take my lead from this song. She is still dancing though, and I don’t think there’s anyone with her. Surely that’s what any normal person would do, just pootle over and start dancing Kira adjacent while the slow-ish song plays.

Note three: No to pootle, no to adjacent.

Note four: Do not let her see you making notes to yourself in your head.

The problem with me going over to dance is I’ll be all limbs and no rhythm, and it’s a proven scientific fact that girls who dance very much prefer their boys to be the other way round. Well, maybe not proven, but I’m pretty sure it’s true.

Twenty minutes.

‘May I have this dance, m’lady…’

No.

‘How’re you getting on with that Hamlet essay?’

Not the time.

‘Your nose ring looks resplendent under the UV...’

Definitely not.

Fuck it.

‘Pint of eggy beer and a cider and black please, barkeep!’

Barkeep. For fuck’s sake...