Time to blow the cobwebs off of this...again.
Due to recent events, I have found myself drifting to a certain part of the internet. A part that only such events could bring you to. I'm not one to judge, there's no shame in it...if that's what you're into.
One word...ou deux?
Scrolling through the endless playlists, I smile at the thought of such a pair from the Emerald Isle. A rather clever move by the Kooples not to hit the cobblestones of Temple Bar, Cork's infamous Hillbilly's fountain or the other handful of watering holes / mating grounds across the country.
I van't help but cringe imagining some poor photographer sweating, having spent several hours editing, using every filter known to Photoshop, only to come up with something like this...
This young damsel wouldn't have come across her knight in shining brogues at the opening of an underground Belvedere - Dom Perignon nightclub in Lisbon, wouldn't have run into him under the Eiffel Tower on her way home New Year's morning, wouldn't have been persistantly seduced by him having seen her hop out of a car outside Hotel Costes. She would have given him "the eyes" while sipping her vodka and raza, clutching the edge of the bar to fix her spanx, allowing her to suck it in for that last half an hour, fake eyelashes batting almost as subtly as the blisters on her soles burst from the heels she knew she shouldn't have worn.
He, forcing the end of his pint into him, would try to figure out in his drunken "come-on-man-don't-be-sick-keep-it-together-only-half-an-hour-to-Burger King" stuper, whether said damsel was trying to get his attention or having some kind of seisure.
Stage two ; instead of keeping up the eye contact, leading him to some quiet part of the club, not saying a word, simply clinking champagne flutes before leaning in for a kiss that would change her life....she runs to the bathroom to the group of friends, half of whom are hiding there finishing the drink that had been stowed away in tights, clutches etc, the other half have been swallowed up by this particular night, heads in toilet bowls, mascara all the way down to their chins,=; these are the wise few that will no doubt have her knight falling after her (and not just due to the last shot of Jager)
She returns to the dancefloor, full of vodka inspired confidence, surrounded by whats left of the army that have managed it out of the bathroom and not retreated to the taxi rank. She locks her eyes on his, which is somewhat difficult due to the 'rabbit-in-the-headlights' drunken stare. Eventually the pair, post grinding, lock in a tender embrace, jammed up against a sticky nightclub wall (from all of the spilled sugary mixers surely).
Stay tuned for further adventures of the Cúple...