maximum adventure

the carnival is over. the elephants have gone home with the monkeys who play mind tricks and the spectacular acrobats have been swallowed up by the sky.
it began when i stepped of the edge and entered a menagerie of rugby players with a tendency to strip and and glossy models with a baby whose first word is 'whassup'. i was received with a bear hug from the coach who has a constant craving for media and pasta. and met, one by one, characters from a book that hasn't been written yet.
nights at the old colonial house with its high ceilings were sweaty and i stared myself to sleep each night, my gaze fixed on the ceiling fan. i missed m and the comfort of sleeping in the crook of his arm.
The morning brought with it a bunch of eminently readable newspapers with uptodate information about who is dating who, who is divorcing who, the party circuit and oh yeah, the weird interesting fact-stranger-than-fiction reports from around the world. i drank it all in with my tea and didn't wonder too much about what was happening in the real world. only a little and i felt guilty for not being more interested.
but guiltlessly tucked in my ring and tali into a drawer before going anywhere.
at the match afterparty, a charming, if a bit boorish player swaggered up to ask if i'd want to go to the disco later with him and his friends. the fact that this was the same guy who'd earlier surprised me by deliberately dropping his boxers as i photographed the team in the warm-up room only bothered me a little. the incident seemed funny in a crass way at the time.
i was preoccupied with the temptation to feel young and adventurous. but i declined the invitation, albeit very reluctantly. gut instinct.
the next morning papers screamed 'rugby rogues beat up bar manager, paw girl'. their names were there all right.
And I was on a flight home, eager to be with m and tell him stories about naked men and a bloody sport.