Maybe, he thought, maybe if I take this road, it will lead me by some secret back way sun-glazed cliffs which I aim to descend, for to meet a fain lass in the vale. The jolly man, hidden in his cave, had made a few things clear to me before I left.
Not to take anything, you know, from the company, and certainly not to sell it so blatantly, in the square on market day. Rather to permeate all levels of the keep, to know of things before they happen, and plan for the bounty they bear, should the preparations be just right.
Of these things he did not speak, but I was thinking them over his words as he rambled on about the supposed necessity of maintaining a permanent, positive image in the eyes of others. How god damn important is it, I thought, if the new guy thinks you’re his best bud, if some jackass upstairs just up and walks into your office, yanks out some super-limited product, then hackles it at the market for no cost but that intangible risk of being caught. Whole peoples have been decimated by men willing to take, or oblivious even to the existence, of that risk.
The lean beast pounding away beneath me sounds a bit raspy, could have him checked out at the glue maker’s. This patch of road seems in no way familiar, unless that bridge up ahead is ... indeed, it is. Damn, must have triangulated my intended location by about three miles. At the very least, this stretch is, for sheer lack of interesting features, to be avoided.
Buy the ticket, take the ride. She had laughed, that night, every time she twirled, sinking back into my arms, allowing me to steal a kiss in her shy way, hesitant, with all her friend’s eyes on her, but excited at the prospect of it, at the spontaneous naughtiness. For some reason, I knew I would call her. It had become a bit of a personal problem, girls’ numbers filling empty spaces on scratch paper, appearing magically on cellphone contact lists, like so many others never to be called. I knew it would have to end, that I would have to not only buy the ticket, but take the fucking ride with it.
But why her? Why did the brief and barely noticed rash of empty promises, missed opportunities, echoing in its own loneliness, more of an irritation than a rash, really, that happened to plague this finest city briefly, before the advent of summer, end with her?
The bar can’t be but a few more blocks, and the lights have been sooooo good, hold, just a little longer, let me through, good, just ah... crap. Can’t get the fucking thing into neutral, roll back, gun it forward, get some friction on it, there. Something calming about that little green light, pulsating softly as the turn signal sucks juice, like the eye of a storm, internal clocks resetting as signs of an impending traffic light change promulgate. Then, the eyes pulsating slightly in their sockets as the lungs suck juice, releasing held breath slowly, for the split second when sound, wind and velocity once again reign supreme.
His eyes adjust to the dimness, a low mishmash of ceilings covering a previous courtyard. The Mexican bartender dunks a sliver of lime, too small, into his beer, seemingly for good measure, as he turns again, to scan the bar. Door in the back, looks like even more dim booths and tables in there. Two, at a table close by, pretty, but keep looking. The handful of booths that line the wall in this main room are all filled with couples, and it’s certainly not the eight year old sitting with Granny and Gramps. Now don’t they look foul. No smiles on her old face in decades, at least not real ones. He’s probably a cop, or wishes he still were, set in his ways, trigger happy, would complain about his own sweat.
The family close to the back door doesn’t even compute. You wouldn’t meet up with someone for drinks with your infant girl cousin puking on herself two feet away. No sir, it must be these two.
Three times he touches her, lightly, on the arm, about half way down the biceps. It is a gesture that is best used when something the lady said was not heard correctly, to encourage her to lean in, maybe get a little of your hot man breath down her ear canal to boot. Pleasant, interested, amusing, but not a fool, inquisitive, making sure to mix a little salt in with the sugar, so they know I’m not just feeding them lies.
Fuck I always mix up the first and third persons. Can we drop tense, shall I switch between them, can I? Will it make any difference, if someone picks up on it? Does it denote sloppiness, or a concentration on the greater structure of the piece?
It ends with a hug! Didn’t help that her sister was there. It was worse because she was hotter, maybe a bit smarter, but there for many different purposes. Failsafe. Judge. Support. Not once did she ask me a question. Fine. I just want to bang this little honey, probably never call her back. But a hug?
Proper fucked. There’s always prostitution. JK
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