50 Reasons to Say Goodbye Read Online Free PDF

touching his chest, “I lost my voice.”
    I nod. I stare at the streetlight opposite – it is blurred, two-headed. I shake my head.
    â€œSorry,” I slur. “I’ve gotta go home … Too much to drink.” I feel tired, drunk, slightly sick, slightly depressed. I can’t be bothered with it at all.
    Eric Cantona nods. “Can I come?” he whispers.
    I turn, stare at him and try to focus. He cracks up laughing. I snigger too.
    We stumble along together; I think he’s as drunk as I am. It’s just too much effort for him, so I talk as we bump along side by side.
    He breathes “um” and “huh” noises in reply.
    At home I fumble with the lock, stumble into the hall. We kiss for the first time in the darkened hallway at the bottom of the stairs, but my mouth is numbed by the alcohol – I don’t feel much.
    We move into the lounge. My flatmate is out, for which I am grateful. We kiss, we cuddle, we half undress, move into the bedroom. His body is tight, firm, and hairless.
    We kiss again but his mouth is drunken and slobbery and I don’t enjoy kissing him at all.
    I fall onto my bed; he collapses beside me, rests his head on my chest.
    â€œLook, I’m, like
really
pissed,” he hisses. “I’m sorry, but …” Phlegm catches in his throat, rattles as he breathes the words.
    I smile to reassure him. “Me too,” I say. “There’s always tomorrow morning.”
    I am happy just to have him in my bed.
    I awaken first. I hear John rummaging around behind the bedroom door. I look at Eric Cantona lying beside me – he’s smaller than I remember. He has tiny hands and darker stubble this morning. Asleep he looks quite beautiful, angelic even. I slip carefully from the bed, pull on some jeans and creep from the room.
    In the kitchen, John is making tea. “D’you want some?” he asks me, waving the pot. He’s wearing cricket whites.
    I nod. “Two cups please.”
    He looks at the door, raises an eyebrow. I nod, grin.
    â€œTell me more,” says John reaching for another cup.
    I shrug. “I dunno. I was
sooo
drunk.”
    John pours the second cup.
    â€œHe looks a bit like that footballer, Eric Cantona,” I say. “But smaller, very cute, very butch.”
    â€œHis name?”
    I bite my lip. “Don’t know that either, husky voice though, actually he’s
lost
his voice,” I add, remembering.
    John adds milk to the first cup of tea then pauses, interrupted by a shriek – a high-pitched, sharp-edged shriek.
    â€œHelllooooo?”
    John looks at me in surprise.
    â€œHelllooooo! Is anyone ho-w-ome?” The voice ringsaround the house.
    â€œEric Cantona, I presume,” John smirks.
    I bite my lip as he appears in the doorway, a sheet wrapped around him toga-style.
    â€œJoel actually,” he says. He pronounces it “Joe-elle.”
    He continues, “Ooh, sorry boys.” He looks at me, raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise we had
company!”
    His voice is machine-gun speed – high pitched, exaggerated camp.
    â€œAnd guess what!” he says mincing to my side.
    I grit my teeth. “What?”
    He flattens his hand across his chest. “I got my voice back.”
    He leans back against the countertop, eyes John from head to toe. “Very nice, I must say. Very …
white,”
he says.
    â€œJohn plays cricket,” I explain.
    He purses his lips, says, “Ooh, a real man.”
    I look at John and imperceptibly widen my eyes.
    He sees, stifles a snigger, and looks at his watch. “Oh shit!” he says.
    â€œJohn?” I say. I look at him pleadingly.
    â€œGee, I have to go.” I hear the irony in his voice.
    He sweeps his cricket bag off the floor.
    Eric Cantona/Joe-elle bends a leg, juts out a hip. “Oh well,” he says. He sounds disappointed.
    â€œNow you boys be good,” says John pushing