I was in a bar in Fulham with my Irish flatmate. We were halfway through our first bottle of white when she took a call and stepped outside.
A group of men in black tie came in. One of them pointed at me, looked at his friends, and nodded.
Then they began.
“You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’.”
To me.
For the first few lines I smiled politely, as though this were a charming, fleeting incident.
It was not fleeting.
The song is very long. There are verses. There are key changes. There is commitment.
My glass was empty. My cigarette had burned down to nothing. My flatmate was still outside. The entire bar was watching my face as if I had personally requested the performance.
I didn’t know where to look. At them? At the table? At the exit I couldn’t gracefully use?
I briefly considered climbing under the table.
When they finally finished — with a flourish — they left. All of them. No explanation. No invitation. No follow-up.
My flatmate came back in, sat down, and asked what she’d missed.
I couldn’t adequately explain it.
The night just continued.