He stumbled out. Well, in his mind he had stumbled. It had felt like a stumble, in fact, quite a classic stumble - he was quite proud of it. Had he looked on it with a passive observer's eyes he would have been disappointed at his tidy gait and apparent sobriety. Still, a passive observer he was not - not tonight. For a moment he was unsure why he had left the party. He'd been having a great time and had really got into the meaningless banter with strangers thing. That could so often be a private hell waiting for the comfort of someone whose opinion you actually give a shit about. But tonight he'd been quite the debonair - again, a passive observer might have disagreed - but regardless, he'd had fun chatting shit. He'd occasionally caught himself playing with people, but had managed to stay just on the right side of polite for it to have been harmless - he hoped. He was probably leaving on some kind of homing instinct. Yeah, that was it - another beer and he'd have become a liability. "Good move man," he caught himself saying. "Goooood move"...this time more deliberately.
He took a couple of turns purposefully avoiding any pattern of direction. He wanted to be lost. Lost in a big city. Shit this felt good. He toyed with his walkman but replaced it in his pocket. He was glad to be free from it. He was free from. Free from earphones, free from direction, free from conversation. Like a Sainsbury's health man. Heheh, must remember that, actually no. Not that good. Still. He laughed again, he'd enjoy it whilst it lasted.
He fumbled his phone out of his pocket, turned it off and became his own entity. A few more paces led him to some steps. Time to sit and roll a cigarette. Watching the people walk past, counting how many people he didn't give a fuck about, the smoke causing damage he didn't give a fuck about. It was cold but that only reminded him how blissfully alone and himself he was. Right now.
The window of the taxi rank blinked neon scumminess. The first image in documentaries about the dangers of unlicensed minicabs. "How much to Kilburn?" Familiar, curt, and with enough casual ease to suggest a local, rather than the tourist, rate. "Twenty pounds love." "Twenty?" - still friendly - got to keep it friendly, he'd seen the documentaries. "Probably do it you for fifteen." "Hmmm," he bit his lip, fifteen meant seventeen after the "unexpected" roadworks, then meant twenty after the ballad of the driver without change meeting the drunken tipper. Happy fuckin' Christmas! "I'll leave it thanks - probably walk"... "To Kilburn!?" She raised her eyes. Shrugging, he stumbled off. It was difficult to say why he had enjoyed that brief exchange so much - but he had. Maybe it was a fuck you to all the dodgy fares and cabs he'd had. Maybe the pleasure of making someone work for him, and then to carelessly walk away (another fuck you?). Mostly it was the utter impassiveness. He didn't care about the money, nor the cab. He'd had a whim to get a cab and then another whim to walk. He'd followed both whims with utter impassive obedience. Free from the confusion of his internal dialogue... The dialogue now telling him he was free... He shook off this latest thought, and instead of dwelling on it, congratulated his streetwise taxi bargaining skills as he wandered onwards... "Fucking good move." He nodded as the words came out. Someone across the road sat on some steps, smoking, observing him passively. "Fucking good move."