In the giddy Delirium of a Wetherspoons Curry Club/Valentine's Mash-Up, You Manage to Fully Pull

This feeling in the air – a sort of skittish horniness – is what you imagine 18–30 holidays must have felt like, constantly, before we banned the 90s: everyone just very overtly making hungry eyes at each other, not-at-all-subtle bumps at the bar, people handing you syrup-yellow shots and you downing them unblinkingly, someone has walked you to their table and is introducing you to every one of their friends, balloons are tied to wrists, stools are spiralled around tables one, two, three layers deep, you are dancing unalone to a Ke$ha song, the floor is sticky, you are pulling at their clothing until they lean in for a kiss, you are in the smoking area laughing like you’re auditioning for a play, you’re stealing the chips, you’re in the taxi, you’re brushing your teeth with your raw finger, the light is white then yellow then purple then red then black, and you wake up, dazed, just as the light is coming up on the cusp of the day. What is th— what’s that digging feeling, in your back? You put a hand around you to investigate. A single, shrapnel-like piece of heart-shaped confetti. Your phone battery is dead and your junk needs a check-up. You drink a Lucozade on the bus to work and hope nobody notices your sex hair.

YOU HAVE WON AT VALENTINE’S DAY