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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