It’s the siren song of a girl who’s been fucked one too many times in the wrong position, and now sports a creeky neck that yanks her head a little to the left than to the right. A drunken phone call at 3am the morning of my first court appearance in a good while; a slurring cacophony of beautiful, husky cursing and pleading, begging me to let her come over. There’s nobody in bed with me tonight, and I kept it that way for the sake of my moonlight sanity, for fear that I’d lose it as soon as I awoke to meet my sentence. To wake up alone on your judgement day is a tried and lonely gift to the world and to yourself. But one has to be courageous, and that’s something I am not. I tell her to catch a cab on over and that I’d pay the difference. The half-hour ride would give me time to freshen up, make the bed, brush my teeth, trim my balls and find something to use as a prophylactic.
The whole neighbourhood hears the ring-a-ding-ding doorknock of my surly maiden, as she stumbles on into the hallway like a swaying oak in a twister. Her heels are an impediment to her graceless walk, knocking hard against the floorboards. She looks rougher than I thought she would after an early Tuesday’s drink, but more beautiful than I remember most ever did. The definite wave of her crisp and bright, orange mane entangled around itself glides gently over the small of her crook-neck. She hoists her arms up over herself and lets out a pipsqueak moan and yawns.
Her devilled eyes are the weary, green abysses one could only perceive with the heartache they truly warranted through the mind of a dying old man, longing for the touch of restless death. Their beauty and their terror — intoxicating and violent with great rarity and emotion. Her spindly hands fall back down beside, and I’m left with a tragic, wary soul encased in honest and breathtaking splendor. She puts her right hand to its corresponding dress-strap and peels it away with a nursing tenderness. Then the other. Her gown falls to the hallway floor, her perfect and broken Venus body bares the light bravely, each curve caressed by the white brilliance of the moon beaming through the open door behind her. For the moment we’re alone, I’ll make haste with whatever time I have left in my wake, and consume her with the hunger and desire I had the first time we met. Such is the last night of a free man, who has never had anything for free.
Fucking fuck you, censorship, you fucking fuck.
Rachel finishes serving as we sit down at the table. Mike’s not a smoker, and neither is she I’d assume, so I throw my cigarettes onto the couch in case I habitually reach for one and light up. I don’t want to be rude or anything.
Her long fingers are perched on her wineglass, like some perfect, weightless silhouette on a plinth. She has resplendent hands; like statues. You could almost frame them and put them in an art gallery. Goddess hands. I can only imagine how much Mike enjoys having them clasped tightly around his d—
So in exacting my penance with some misguided display of sainthood, I tried to save her the indignity of knowing that my heart was elsewhere, and not where I said it was by telling her as succinctly, but gently as possible. Trying her week’s best not to cry, she looked away and bit her bottom lip like a piece of wood, as I drove a stake right through her soul.
She looked upwards in some earnest attempt to drain the rapid welling from her eyelids and keep composure, but as soon as they started to bat, those baby turquoise giants started to pour; and the truth is, I lied. I am a liar. It’s no means of sanctification nor deliverance for me to admit that I love her – passionately and furious. But I can’t love her and love me at the same time.
If it weren’t for this queer contradiction in its own nature, it would be for some other reason that I couldn’t bring myself to want her or need her, though every morsel and atom of my being decrees otherwise, and desperately at that. She told me she had to go, and turned her head. Once to the left, then to the right. With unrelenting dejection robbing her of the purpose in her walk, she drifted off behind herself, bringing her hands up to her eyes. I rushed on after and grabbed her at the shoulders, which brought initial resistance to a swat of the arms, then to a shove as I tried to hold her close to me. With cold justice, she spat “don’t touch me… don’t come near me…” into my face, and left as soon as she could.
I watched as her tiny frame vanished into the blackness of the night, feeling like each and every beat of my pulse would do the same for the rest of my years, and soon enough, she was gone. The truth of her censure was hot lead through my chest, and scorching iron branding in my gut. Therefore, no need in me shall be satisfied. No thirst quenched, nor sorrow absolved.
Harlem, New York
Style doesn’t fade with time.
Just about the mot stylish accessory ever. A Husky-Great Dane cross. (Crown Street)