Thursday, March 22, 2018

1983

He put his index finger to his right nostril, leaned over the marble that held the sink, and dusted the trail of powder. He tripoded his palms to balance his weight and looked in the mirror. He took his hand and smoothed his hair and silently judged the cut. “$70 fucking dollars!” He leaned in and checked his pupils, inspected his nostril, and noticed stray powder on the lapel of his suit. He brushed it off with a violent whisk, stood erect, checked his zipper, and sidestepped an impatient man. He used the heel of his hand to open the door and walked back into the club.

His eyes readjusted to dusk. Noises from the club fucked his mind: music blared from newly installed video screens and words screamed that should’ve been mumbled. The club smelled of suffocated desperations sweat through soaked silk shirts. His heart beat faster than the strobes. “I fucking love coke!” he said to himself. He ordered a Black Russian from a bartender who looked like yesterday. He glanced at the screen above the stage and saw a woman clothed like a man. “Sweet dreams are made of this. Who am I to disagree? I travel the world and the seven seas. Everybody's looking for something.” He took a sip and turned to the crowd.
She stood beside a table. Stiff backed. Legs elongated by heels too high for comfort. A silk dress echoed her sways. She stood still but her body was fluid. She saw him as he watched her. She smiled and returned to the table.

“Now that’s gonna be a great fuck!” He said to no one. He swallowed the rest in the glass, bathed his bottom lip with his tongue, straightened his spine, and walked to her.
“I hate this song” he said.

“I didn’t ask.” She glanced above his eyes to the video.
“True. But see I made this pact when I was at the bar. I told myself that you and I weren’t going to be bullshit.”

She mixed sex and scorn. “We haven’t agreed to anything.”
He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his pack: red wide box, expensive, pretentious.

“What are those?”

“Dunhill.” He withdrew one from behind the foil and placed it between his lips. “Want one?”
“No I have my own.” She possessively patted a pack of Mores near an ashtray.

He took the gold cigarette lighter out of his trouser pocket, lit the cigarette, and took a drag. “You gonna let me buy you a drink?”
“I don’t know.” She crossed her arms.

“What?” he exhaled.
“It all depends.”

“On what.”
“How you kiss.”

He leaned his arm behind him so the cigarette wasn’t in his path.
When they separated she said, “I’ll have a Slippery Nipple.”

He laughed. A huge laughed fueled with truth. “Yeah, you will.”
She smiled. “It’s a drink.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”
“See that bartender that looks like Deney Terrio?” She pointed to a man with oily hair and a slick deportment. “He knows how to make them.”

He laughed and squinted his face. “Who is Deney Terrio?”
She put her hand on his suit coat sleeve and guided him towards the bar. “That one.”

He turned around and kissed her. “I’ll be right back.”
After three drinks, some time by the sink, and a delightful interlude in a men’s room stall, they found themselves walking to the lot that lined the club. He kissed her as he pressed her against the wall at the rear of the lot. His hands traveled her skin beneath her dress until he held her. 

“Let’s go to your place,” she sighed as she arched her back.
“Next,” he said and returned to her.

She grabbed his shoulders and turned him against the wall. Her hand unzipped him and she lowered herself to her knees. When she was finished, she spit his contents on his trouser leg. She stood up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Sorry.”
“Goddamn it!” He said when he saw the smear.

“I said I was sorry.”
“Fuck it. Where did you park?”

“I’m right there.” She pointed to a caramel colored Monte Carlo.
He walked her to her car. “Let’s just be done.”

“Fine!” She sneered as she took the keys from her clutch. She slammed the car door and left the lot.
He took his keys out of his pocket and walked to his car. He shoved his fists into his pockets. “I’m too fucking drunk to drive!” He said aloud. He walked to the curb and sat. He saw the semen on his suit and dropped his chin to his chest. He began to cry. He put his elbows on his knees and held his head with his hands. “Fuck!” he hissed. He took a cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips. He lit it and violently pitched the lighter across the street. He flicked the butt into the street, walked and retrieved his lighter, noticed the dent in the metal, and climbed into his car. He repeated all his vowed as he drove himself home.