Monday, March 19

The Mischief of a Friday Night Drunk

IT WAS only upon waking up the second time that she asked me where she was. Until then we had been satisfied, penetrating and penetrated, in and out of sleep. I told her the name of the town I lived in. She did not believe me, so I repeated myself. She still did not believe me. Her phone, which she had placed underneath her pillow, was retrieved and studied; it would tell her where she was because she did not believe me. It told her where she was in relation to the capital city. It was a very intelligent phone. A wiggling blue line on the phone radiated out from the capital city towards the coast where we were. She still did not believe it. She was very surprised to wake up so far from home. She threw open the curtains—careful to first cover her nakedness—and gasped. Outside the window was a small road, a couple of fences, some trees, a big expanse of miserable-looking white sky. The sky was white with rain. ‘No buildings!’ she exclaimed. There were no buildings.
She got back into bed. Her hair had got wild through the night. My mouth was very dry but there was no water left in any of the numerous glasses that I had surrounded the bed with. I tried to get some spit into my mouth, just to moisten my tongue, but it was no use. She lay there, pushed her bottom into my crotch and laughed. She sent some messages from her phone and tried to make some phonecalls.
‘I’m supposed to be having a pub lunch at twelve.’
‘You ain’t gonna make it,’ I told her.
She reached down and grabbed a hold of my dick, but it was very painful and she let it be—‘Fucking hell,’ she exhausted, ‘I don’t even remember your name. Jesus.’ She tried to remember my name.
I told her my name.
‘I bet you don’t remember my name.’
I remembered her name, so I told her.
Fuck.’
She leaned her head on to my chest and looked at me down there. She told me to play with myself; she could not move. I managed a few seconds but realised that it was pointless. She looked around the room. Upon spying some books something in her memory was jogged—‘Oh, that’s right. Last night you told me you wanted to be a writer.’
I was disappointed in myself for telling anyone that—especially a girl in a bar—‘I did? I don’t even know what that means. Hmm, get paid for it? I write. Get paid to write? What’s the difference? Maybe something’ll get published. Shit, I dunno.’
‘So you read?’
‘Of course.’
‘What do you read? . . . Lemme guess . . . I bet you read love stories.’
I laughed a little—‘No.’
‘Horrors.’
‘Christ, no.’
‘Science fiction?’
‘No.’
‘History novels.’
‘Nope.’
‘Biographies?’
‘No. . . . I read, hmm, the classics, I suppose. Russians. At the moment, I’m reading Turgenev’s Sketches From A Hunter’s Album.’
‘Oh, okay.’
Her head bobbed gently on my chest. I watched her head go smoothly up and down as she looked down at me. It was Saturday morning and there was the miniscule racket of rain and wind. My brother was doing his ironing nearby. The iron hissed. Her presence did not repulse me and even the dry of my throat—that extended far down in my lungs—did not want to stir me from rising. We discussed the night before. Such few fragments of it lay in our minds! I could not remember getting home with her. I must get up and piss. I offered her a drink. Tea and some water. ‘Do you want coffee?’ I asked, ‘I’m going to have a coffee.’
‘Yuck. I hate coffee.’
Who the hell have I let into my house? I wondered.
With steaming mugs we went for a cigarette. She had menthols. There was a balcony in the bar and we met there—it came to me—and got talking. A new acquaintance of mine made an appearance, trying to chat to everything in a skirt, then he disappeared. All of my friends had disappeared, so me and her spoke and smoked menthols—ghastly menthols—and drank shots—ghastly shots—and somehow made our way the eighty-odd miles back to mine. Maybe telling her I wanted to be a writer swayed her. Either way, that journey had completely vanished from our memories. The rain continued to fall in the garden. My dog stood in the middle of it and let the rain fall on her. The girl had put make-up on and she looked different to the girl whom I had spent the night with.
I felt unbalanced and was trying exceedingly hard to be convivial, but there was also a nagging in my thoughts. We sat at the breakfast table and talked for a couple of hours, finding out more about each other. Legs had opened, moans had escaped, semen had risen and fallen—now we were free to talk to each other. It did not make sense to me, not beyond the cold wet Saturday did it make sense to me as I accounted for the mischief of a Friday night drunk.
The rain was still falling hard when her cab came. The car sat there, driver looking forward, rain falling, grey all around, and a five-pound-note of mine in her pocket to get her to the station dry. We kissed and I asked her to take it easy. The house gave me a blissful quiet that I was very glad for. I found my phone and saw that I had taken down her number from the night before—at least I suspected that it was her number—and had named her ‘Colonist.’ Why had I saved her as Colonist? What did that mean? I could not remember. The number that I had for her in my phone was wrong. It had too many numbers. I prepared another coffee, rolled a cigarette and knew that I would not see her again.

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