Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
Originally, the rainbow trio arrived on the stage covered in purple and aqua tinsel.
They glittered and shimmered with the magic of a festive celebration.
The boys had it draped along their waist and matching eyeshadow ensuring their faces were glowing under the lights.
The music started and they shimmied and jiggled in unison.
The crowd were enamoured by their charm and undeniable attraction.
It was queer party night at the bar and the crowd was diverse with every kind of character.
Women in tinsel made skirts joined the men on stage by the second verse.
I thought it was water as she splashed me accidentally but of course it was vodka with a dash of lemonade.
She asked if I thought it was time?
Were we ready?
I’ve been ready for months I thought.
The sparkly men and women continued to jiggle and shimmer from the stage as the song ended.
Another team adorned with sequins came out.
I thought I heard a bang, but in actual fact the DJ was clumsily changing the song and the speakers took a moment to react to the strong beat.
She whispered that she loved me.
That she was excited.
She clasped my hand in hers.
Our other friend came back from the bathroom suspiciously amped.
I thought about this being the last alcohol induced buzz for a little while. A long while actually.
It was brilliant and so exciting.
Her eyes sparkled in the flash of the disco lighting.
Our man came over to us. Ready to chat.
He was glossy from sweat. And glittered from tinsel.
I wondered if it was important to tell him how much this means to us.
I wondered if he will think we’re insane or genius.
Will he want to be a part of this? Will he want nothing to do with it?
What kind of green we will paint on the nursery walls?
Something lovely and gender neutral and calming.
For all those long nights of nursing a crying baby to sleep.
I can already feel this little baby growing inside me and it doesn’t even exist yet.
I now understand more why miscarriages are so heartbreaking.
Because its not just about how long you may have been pregnant, it adds on to all the time before that, of thinking and dreaming and hoping.
Planning this life that doesn’t exist yet. Conjuring and contemplating and worrying.
What kind of life can I make for this little person.
As a writer, an artist, a mother.
Being the best partner I can possibly be.
Being myself.
As imperfect and messy and glorious as that is.