Ad Hoc: Oliver and Roslyn

July 1, 2010
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Oliver had one of those headaches. Spinning room and light sensitive type of headache.

From his position on a rather beaten up couch he could see various old friends, various new friends and various strangers, asleep in a variety of odd locations. He had amusing recollections of them all. He smiled.

House parties.

He felt lucky to have secured such a wonderful place to sleep as his beaten up two-seater, complete with hairy blanket. Everyone should have been so lucky, although whoever was on the pool table might have an interesting story to tell. He could see Dahlia – the “besty”, to use her word – had found unconsciousness on the coffee table among half full glasses of mystery liquids in a rainbow of colours.

Classy.

Oliver decided propping himself up on his elbows first might be a good plan of action, the long term goal was succeeding in standing up. He endured the spinning and promised himself not to be so indulgent next time; a promise that was fashionable to break and that he knew he would.

There was a heavy, morning-after smell of stale cigarette smoke and the prevalent scent of cider, with definite undertones of sin and immorality, Oliver thought with a mental giggle, it was too quiet to vocalize anything. He himself had no regrets and an intact memory. Alcohol-amnesia was not something he was prone to, or really believed in. He could imagine all the “I wish I could remember” stories.

How convenient.

He sat up, endured some more minor spinning and performed a cursory examination of himself. He was missing his shoes and had grass stains on the knees of his drainpipes (the result of accepting a challenge to a crawling race of all things). That was the extent of the damage though; no scrawled messages on his body or face that he could see; something he was prone to, being the one who always fell asleep first. He could only imagine his hair.

Edward scissor hands.

He stood up, careful to avoid the body of a girl he recognised as the one coming on to everyone all night; affectionately known as “a** girl”; she was overnight infamous, and very unattractive. He kept as far away as possible.

He fired up the percolator in the once clean kitchen; coffee cravings, although he wasn’t really much of a coffee drinker usually. He retrieved his shoes. The noise of the percolator set a few more messes stirring.

Disposable teens, to quote Manson.

He smiled again, pouring his coffee. He would leave soon, cleaning up was definitely not on the agenda. He felt sort of sorry for whoever owned the house.

The back door opened. A girl walked in; bent over and using the door handle for support and pulling a leaf off her high heel. There was more in her hair. She straightened herself and saw Oliver; she smiled.

Wow.

Oliver suddenly felt very self-conscious of his messy hair.

‘Hey’, she said, and then ‘yay coffee’, walking over and busying herself with coffee cups and various condiments.

‘Hey’ Oliver replied slightly stupidly and a little late; she was very pretty. She was also one of those people Oliver noticed; complicated coffee people who use exact amounts of low-fat milk and sweetener with god knows what else. He didn’t remember her from the party. She was beautiful, in a piques-your-curiosity sort of way. She wore had thick grey hair, although she couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Dyed probably, Oliver thought. Most interestingly though – besides the fact that she appeared to have slept outside somewhere – was that she wore a black eye patch, pirate style.

“Lose it in the war?” said Oliver with a grin; she looked up from her concoction and their eyes met; close up this time. Her brown eyes looked puzzled, then realization dawned and her expression changed to a polite smile. She recognized the joke.

‘Unfortunate incident with a rusty nail actually’ she said leaning against the counter and sipping her coffee.

S***.

‘You’re serious?’ said Oliver, shocked. She nodded. ‘Oh I’m sorry, I thought it was some new fashion thing or something…’ he trailed off. Her face broke into an amused smile. She laughed. Oliver breathed a sigh of relief.

‘It’s fine, actually not to brag, but I think It’s quite sexy,’ She laughed again, ‘the patch not the ehh underneath.’ She had perfect teeth for her toothy smile. Her laugh was deep, and originated somewhere in her stomach. Oliver laughed with her, it would have been hard not to.

‘You slept outside?’ Oliver said to bring the conversation away from his mistake.

‘On a trampoline’, she said matter-of-factly and they laughed some more, and drank more coffee. Oliver liked her; she was a glass-half-full kind of girl.

‘Oliver by the way,’ he said extending his hand. She looked at it for a second and smiled, and then she hugged him. Her hair smelt vaguely minty.

‘I’m Roslyn,’ she said, detaching herself. A random hung-over party-goer stumbled by with an undistinguishable groan of greeting. No doubt on their way to the bathroom and clearly not fully awake.

Charming.

Oliver and Roslyn shared a look, and had to stifle more laughter. Oliver wished he had met her at the party, with some liquid confidence thrown in.

‘Anyways,’ Roslyn said, slamming her cup down onto the counter in a final sort of way. ‘I must be going, I have no intention of cleaning up after these vagrants but I do have the intention of some real coffee. Care to join me?’ She said it in a mock-posh voice, with her toothy laugh. She walked away.

Now or never, I wish I had a comb.

Oliver followed.





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