Published July 9, 2004


Not knowing whether you scored the previous night, you move towards her. She´s not nearly as pretty as your waitress, but she´s there and the waitress is not. Whatever happened last night, your current bedfellow has now lost all interest in you. This, of course, turns you on.
Somewhat stupidly, you reach for your mobile phone and ask for her number. She gives you seven figures, most probably at random, as you hurriedly press “Add entry.” The phone demands a name. At that point you realise you have no idea what her name is, so you fail to record what may or may not be her number. Not knowing what to do, and hoping for relief from your predicament, you decide to head for the bathroom. You stand up in front of her, naked. She gives you an expression which tells you that what may have seemed to her like a good idea at the time no longer is. When you reemerge from the toilet, she´s gone. Whether you managed to score a goal in the endless tournament that is the Reykjavík bar scene, you´ll never know.
And on it goes. You wait for night to come and head out again. I had heard rumours of free beer at an election rally, and suddenly found myself developing an interest in politics. The candidate in question was for world peace, so I didn´t have a moral crisis drinking his beer. Apart from me, there was barely anyone is the room but the candidate and his gorgeus Russian bride. A couple of guys came in and walked up to me. At least someone cared. “Is it true about the free beer?” they asked. I pointed them in the direction of the empty bar. If you can´t even get the people to drink for peace, then what hope is there? The election over, the peace candidate cut off the free booze and went home to the comforting arms of his loving wife, if nothing else.
The bar went back to charging world record prices for the beer, and the bar suddenly became filled with people. Obviously, you wouldn´t want to be seen in a place where everything was free.
A band came on. At the lack of anything better to do I stood in front of the stage and stared at the two people constituting the band, a slightly overweight lead singer charging through yet another rendition of Mustang Sally while the keyboardist tried to keep pace. A girl put her hand on my shoulder, as if trying to see past me. I turned around. For a minute I thought I was in love. Then I realised it was just her estrogen levels. She was at that point in her monthly cycle where she took to touching strange men for no apparent reason, when even the slightest touch seemed sensual. There was something she emitted into the air. I was not the only one picking up on this. She looked at me, emitted more of whatever it was she was emitting, and swayed her body more in tune than the music was. Before more than a moment could pass, and I´m not one to count my moments, she was surrounded by men bumping into one another, trying to keep rhythm around her, and they all had a certain look in their eye. She smiled, but not to me anymore. I sat down and ordered a beer. Comforts don´t come cheap in this town, but they do have them.

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