When I first got to know #130, I was still with #117. #130 contacted me on-line, and when we met in person she was surprised that I wasn’t as she’d expected. I guess my on-line presence looked like political rants and smart insights; my real life consisted of being cooped up in our flat, getting stoned, and crying a lot.
After I moved out from #117 and things picked up again, I became much more like the person #130 had originally expected to meet. More like the old days. She lived in Glasgow, and we hung out sometimes.
One grey rainy day in June 2004, I headed to Glasgow for Pride at the Arches. Catríona and #130 and #130’s flatmate and I huddled around a table listening to cheesy dance music and making up a drinking game: you drank every time you saw a shirtless man, a leather kilt, sunglasses indoors, and so on. It was kind of fun but basically you just never stopped drinking. I told enthusiastic stories about what #129 and I had been getting up to. “You’re in love with #129,” everyone informed me. I denied it, I insisted we were just partners in crime, that he was just amazing, that was all. Then I’d try to tell another enthusiastic story and they’d point triumphantly.
#130 and I crashed on the fold-out bed in Catríona’s living-room at the end of the night (the flatmate, to his surprise, found himself in Catríona’s bed). I kissed #130, but I don’t really remember it, I just know that it happened. She’s gorgeous, sure, but I don’t really know what I was thinking, because sometimes there are lines of friendship that you don’t cross, and I was just a bumbling drunk, possibly verging on sleazy. Luckily, there was no drama about it whatsoever.