‘Music… Makes the people… nah nah nah.. Come together.’
Her blonde hair framed her face like a soft halo, lit up from the screen behind her. The lyrics to Madonna’s worst track flashing like the red man at a pedestrian crossing. Like a warning.
‘Fuck I love Madonna, babe. Babe I love Madonna, don’t I? Don’t I babe?’
I sipped on my beer and looked at the ground, nodding. Yeah babe, you love Madonna.
—
I met Tennille two years ago.
I was at Friday night drinks with my colleague Simon – a sleazy liability but still the best of the boring bunch that I worked with – when I heard a countdown, slamming glasses and a high pitched WOOOOOO. I turned to glare at the human making that awful fuckin noise.
She had curly shoulder length blonde hair and was laughing into a friend’s neck. Her teeth glistened with saliva, her eyes scrunched in balls of drunken joy. She and three friends were getting blotto, if they weren’t there already. Macklemore’s ‘Thrift Shop’ came on and the group screeched, taking a few steps away from the bar to begin dancing on a non-existent dance floor.
Simon elbowed me with his beer-arm, and pointed at them with his eyebrow. I didn’t need to be asked twice. Within a few songs, we had joined them. Tennille began dancing at me, moving sharp and joyously in time to the lyrics. Then she was hanging off my arm, her blonde curls lightly touching my chin.
I slipped my arm around her waist and pulled her in. We were pashing, breathing in collective alcohol fumes, mixing drinks by rubbing tongues. Hands pulled us apart: ‘…ARAOKE?’. Tennille grabbed my hand and we headed for the door. The six of us stampeded across the road to a karaoke joint with private rooms, wine jugs included in the price. Shots. Laughing. Screams. Pashing. Microphone.
A week later, we met up with the girls again, and much of the same thing happened. Then again a fortnight later. Again and again. The same routine. And then she moved in.
And then… now. Now, we we’re here.
Back in a shitty karaoke room with a sound system that pitches the lyrics too loudly against the background music. I’m sipping on my 8th or 9th beer looking at the ground. Not enough food, too much mixing, the air in here is gross.
‘Babe – it’s your go’ she points the mic at me, her eyes look hard to keep open. I can see her chin pimples pushing through make up. The skin around them is dry and white.
I stumble onto the stage and she reaches up to me, I think for a kiss but… ‘Don’t fuck it up’ she spits into my ear. I push her head away.
My song comes up. The room groans. I flick them all the bird. ‘This is for you Tenille.’
The song: UB40’s cover version ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’.
Mate, she is such a legend – the best thing that has ever happened to me, I reckon.
