A number. I’m drunk and stupid and all I can think about is a number. Her number. Left the party early, overwhelmed by Saint Patrick’s celebrations and all those green and happy people. I thought about her and her bloody fucking number. One, two, five thousand figures. It was a mystery to me. Rushed back home. On the bus, more joy. Saturday party people going somewhere to have fun. Me, already drunken, felt pathetic. Why was it so important? What difference did it make? Whether she slept with half the men in the world or with just a few guys, did it really matter? Was it so important if, after all of those motherfuckers, she chose me? Should I hate them all or actually thank them for throwing her into my arms? Opened the door, spread my stuff all over my flat and sit in front of the computer. Started writing. “Her number” I typed. Outside, people laugh and drink and fuck. And cry. I cried for her. She cried for me. And we fucked. And we laughed. Now her number seems irrelevant. I love her. She loves me. Only me. “Thanks guys. Thanks for being so shit. So shit she couldn’t but fall for me” I type. But don’t smile. I remember her. I miss her. Shit, I wish I could just keep thinking about the stupid fucking number.