Tag: alcohol

Day #22

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Clearstarcher: One who clearstarches – To stiffen with starch, and then make clear by clapping with the hands

Agog: In eager desire eager astir

Improlificate: To impregnate

—–

He doesn’t know that I saw them, him with her. But I was there.

I was in the corner, leaning on a wall, wearing a leather jacket and with my hair slicked neatly back. Earlier in the night I’d told my reflection, ‘you look just like Buddy Holly, dude, nice work.’

He arrived after I did, at least thirty minutes after to be precise, which is an unforgiveable rudeness in my books. He came alone, as you know, wearing a sharply tailored evening suit, the inky blue of fading twilight. I remember his shirt was a blinding white, cuffs and collars stiff and rigid, gleaming like teeth. Fucking clearstarcher, I thought, with your stiff enamel collar, rigid and broad like the wings of a fucking albatross.

Bear in mind that she was already there at this point, chatting and laughing with friends, Molly from floor four, Sally from floor three, Polly from floor two. They each held a small glass tumbler, full of brown liquid, probably whisky or amaretto. I like amaretto, do you like amaretto? No? Well, she did. She enjoyed the hot flush of aniseed searing her tongue, the warmth on her throat, the gently curling heat in her stomach, a dragon in its pit.

She caught his eye immediately, but, in that dress who would fail to succumb to her charms? The long, slender legs, creamy against the strawberry red of her dress, a bodice tight as bark on a tree pushing fleshy fruits to the forefront of any man’s thoughts. I know they were in mine, plump bosoms bouncing as I stood in the corner, watching.

Did you know her hair fell like autumn leaves? A sheet of auburn silk draped lightly over her shoulders, tresses eddying like an effervescent chestnut river. It was ravishing, simply sumptuous. He saw it. I saw it too.

I saw his eyes agog, bulbous stars in the night, the fog lights of souls passing in the night, drawn to her by the white heat of her shimmering radiance.

Please, bear in mind that I too was partaking in the general imbibements of the night, if not the actual merriments. I was satisfied watching from the corner, she the dormouse to my tawny owl. He wasn’t though. Oh no, no, no!

He flocked to her; strutting, cavorting, talking, carousing, drinking, dancing, touching, holding, groping, kissing, escaping, improlificating. Possibly.

You do know what that word means, don’t you? Improlificate? It means to impregnate. But I don’t say that word. I dislike the hard ‘egg’ sound. It sticks in my throat as though it could hatch at any moment.

Anyhow, I saw them leaving together, hand on ass, tongue in mouth, crotch in crotch. The last thing I saw was the soft, red petal of her lipstick imprinted on his stiff shirt collar. Deep down I hoped it was blood. But it wasn’t. It was just affection.

His wife looks at me, eye-to-eye for the first time since I started talking.

‘Why are you telling me all this?’ she asks, her voice hoarse.

Day #17

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Peirastic: Fitted for trial; experimental; tentative

Catholicize: To make or to become catholic or Roman Catholic

Adrianople: a city in Northwest Turkey a Thracian town that was rebuilt and renamed by the Roman emperor Hadrian

—–

It was definitely the wet slurp followed by the smacking of lips. That was the only way to shut Beaver up; you had to show him you were busy drinking. Buck took another swig of his beer, amber liquid sloshing against the sides of the dirty glass. With each mouthful, the liquid sunk lower and the glass was raised higher, and at some point Buck had started likening the orangey distortion of Beaver’s face in the bottom of the glass to a strange insect stuck in amber. Both of ‘em bloodsuckers.

The two men were sat in the corner of a dive bar out on route 23, not their local haunt, but one that had been chosen for them. The beer tasted different and a dense hum of smoke hung in the rafters like bats. The locals were the dregs you’d expect to find in the bottom of a barrel, leftover flies on a spiderweb. The woman behind the bar, heavyset and stocky, was wearing a leather waistcoat she’d probably found ditched in the toilets; it had a faded motif on the back, a skull with a snake squirming through the eye.

Buck didn’t like the place, but Beaver, well he was happy anywhere he could sit and drink and talk. It didn’t matter who else was around, the man could talk to anyone; in fact it was because of Beaver’s big mouth they were here. Shouldn’t have listened to him, thought Buck glumly.

‘…So that’s why Hadrian didn’t just build walls,’ concluded Beaver. He produced a silver sheet of tablets from a jacket pocket, popped two of the caps and dropped them into his Whisky Sour, which fizzed angrily. Buck didn’t know exactly what the pills were, but Beaver had explained that they were some kind of peirastic benzodiazepine anticonvulsants – “experimental anti-anxiety pills” apparently.

Beaver chucked his head back and let the frothy orange liquid trickle down his throat. He flicked his tongue out, like a cat yawning, trying to get rid of the taste, then signalled to the bar for another round.

Buck’s attention was drawn to a crucifix hanging over the entrance. He hadn’t noticed it on the way in. How the fuck can you catholicize a place like this, he thought. He realised Beaver was staring at him, red-eyed.

‘Huh?’ asked Buck.

‘Adrianople, man! Fucking city named for Hadrian – he ain’t just been building walls. He’s been doing all sorts of shit, man.’

‘What the fuck are you on about Beaver?’ snapped Buck, beer foam glistening in his stubble. ‘I don’t give a shit what this Hadrian’s been doing or what he’s gonna do. You just keep that bag close, y’hear? That’s the reason we’re in this fucking mess.’

Beaver clammed up into a sullen silence and hugged the bag tightly to his chest. He looked like he was about to say something when the sudden eerie yawn of creaking joints made both men turn their heads toward the entrance. A man stood there, the briefcase in his hand stained red by an electric Budweiser sign.

‘I think this is our guy…’ said Buck, his voice tense.