I made a squeegee with the skin between my thumb and forefinger…and as I ran my hand along the glassy rail the crystal drops danced up and over the back of my hand splashing down into the deep unsettling murk of the mossy bay.
The sleeve of my hoodie was soaked. I was uncomfortable. Helplessly pitched and rocked by the motion of the boat. Exposed on the deck in the irritating mist. It was still better than being inside. Having been outclassed consistently for the last two hours I was unwilling to go back in and brave the paper cuts of any more passing aggression.
I was two-thirds drunk. Vacillating between self indulgent melancholy and moments of breathtaking panic brought on by complete loss of self confidence. I’d already talked to all the people that I had a passing connection with and now, if I lingered near them, clinging to the warm milky strands of our nascent friendship, I was in danger of becoming a bore.