One by one we turned up, as the sun was setting, as we had said we would.

There were Aberwyn (and his lady companion), Eck and I – the Balaclava Boys – and Firecow as the night began. Xena filed in a half hour later, straight from work and clutching the latest issue of her monthly editorial effort. Mun – whom most of us were meeting for the first time – arrived soon thereafter. Much later, four of Aberwyn's colleagues joined us.

Five men and six women. We filled an alcove the bend in the bar counter formed. A well-chosen spot, for the alcove offered spatial privacy, away from the rest of the floor. Further away, there was a sea of heads, of patrons milling about and the staffers who bussed amidst them.

Relegated to the furthest corner of the bar, sandwiched between Xena and a solid wall, I observed with amusement at the gathering before me; each of us – vastly different in personalities and in the trades we ply respectively – like members of a motley crew, filling up the bar. The drinks flowed freely, and there was a spread of finger food to fuel the two or three different threads of conversations going on in the now cellular crowd, as the gathered huddled in small intimate groups and strained to hear – or be heard – above the live music.

Amongst us, there were existing interpersonal relationships that weaved an intricate societal network: he is his friend; she has known him for close to a year; they are colleagues. A network which somewhat reassured us we were not strangers, and that, in the tight confines of the bar, certainly none of us were allowed to feel like one, with bodies touching and limbs grazing. Hot breathes and pitched voices, amplified with imbibing and the din, an inch away from the ears. Playful nudges and arm-slapping.

For some strange reason, I was made the target of a constant barrage of jibing from my fellow bloggers, the joke of the night involving the following: one, that I have small eyes, consequently; two, for the fact that Mun had once expressed to Xena her attraction to men with small eyes; and, three, that I somehow always attract 'happy' men. Soon thereafter, someone in the group proceeded to slap my butt cheek just as I wedged myself between Aberwyn and Xena to place an order with the bartender. Later, I found out it was Firecow who had done so, though he reassured us of his orientation. Eck would go on to give me the glad eye for the rest of the night. Xena rounded it all up by strangling me at some point. Not the limp, mocking kind, and not just once, but twice.

As the night went on, the merry-making wound down and conversations turned intense, and it was ironic that the manner in which each of us delivered our contributions – forced by the very loud music – jarred heavily with the nature and sensitivity of the topic. Nonetheless the topic hung heavy in the air, and we retreated into our respective private thoughts. Aberwyn threw me off with an unexpected hypothetical question, to which I had no sure answer. I fell silent, and I thought of Amy. Mun sensed the change in my mood and shared a empathic look.

It was not that I was offended by the question; rather, I felt a sadness at the fact that therein laid a brutal truth which has been staring in my face all this while, in the course of our tremulous relationship. Somehow it is always friends who give you the reality check the way it should be administered. Hard.

The band was dishing out a very good set, and we sat in silence, letting the words to the songs speak to each of us in private ways. Near closing time, the non-bloggers split for Velvet. Firecow announced he had to go report to the significant other. Aberwyn decided to adjourn to another watering hole. Like the hermit he is, he disappeared into the night.

The remaining four of us went off in search of supper. Over dim sum in the wee hours of the morning, we waxed philosphy about sexuality, relationships and marriages, and how exclusivity factors as a variable in each case. Eck nursed a hot cup of coffee as he shed fascinating insight on Firecow's approach to his relationships, and Xena, Mun and I conceded in awe that Firecow has a very progressive mind indeed.

We stayed for close to an hour. The conversation reached the foot of its emotional arc, and unspokenly, we knew it was time to part. As we made our way towards a pair of taxi cabs, I mused how, after alcohol, everyone becomes a philosopher.

And one by one we left, as the still of the night sank in over our hearts and minds, as how we would have liked it to be.

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