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They come in singles, they come in pairs; the aunt, the uncle, the friends, the couple, the brother, the lovers, their friends, our friends.

They come, and they bring their chaos with them, they come and add to the chaos that is us. We wallow, we indulge, we fight, we make up, we love, they leave.

We break, we mend. But one thing is broken that cannot be mended. The breakables.

Glasses, plates, mugs, jugs; they wobble, they topple, they crash, they shatter. One after the other I watch them go.

The breakers claim the honour, like a wrestler his title: a hunter his horns: a queen her crown: a star their due.

See? I have broken a plate, Jerry announces.

Me I broke two glasses yesterday, James volunteers.

Not to be outdone, I break a glass the next morning, the one I’d left by my bed after a final, bleary-eyed sip of Vodka – and another in quick succession a few hours into that same morning.

Suffice it to say that in no time at all, we go from a rough mix of about six to eight water glasses/snifters, to a lone, lonely Whiskey glass.

When we have drinks, the initiator, meaning the person with the smart idea, gets the glass, meaning they beat the rest of us to it, and the rest of us have to suffer the indignity of using mugs and plastic cups.

I will buy glasses the next time I go shopping, I vow.

Then

I forgot to buy glasses

Or

My shopping was too plentiful; I couldn’t have managed such fragile objects

Or

Fuck all y’all.

A friend sends another friend to me with “a message.” Being a smart businesswoman, I pitch him my clothes-making/designing business on the phone, and he comes along with a fabric he’s been saving.

As a good  hostess, and friend of a friend, I offer him a drink. He accepts.

I go to the kitchen, grab a tray, the Vodka, some juice, some ice and . . . . I start losing weight.

My flatmate had come home a few minutes earlier, and had entered the living room and settled to TV, drink in hand. Now as I stand in the kitchen, thinking, trying my hand at telepathy, coming up against a solid wall, running out of options, shaking, cursing myself for leaving my phone in the parlour (but even if I’d brought it with me, surely the guy would notice the phone ring, Kollins leave with his drink and return with another drink in a different – uhm, mug?).

Kollins – lanky frame and all – stalks into the kitchen, like a modern day miracle, the only glass we own in his right hand. Which he hands me with a smirk and a wink.

I could kiss him.

I don’t.

We don’t

Kiss.

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