Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Autumn Ritual

I stumbled in at 4:00 a.m. A week night in mid-October, her house was cold and drafty. It smelled like fumigation. I flicked on her kitchen light, trying not to wake her abruptly, but trying to wake her. I slammed some scotch and put on some Ennio Morricone, quietly. I felt my better spirit inside me--hello, it's been awhile.

And there she stood in the bedroom portal, blue nightgown, breasts right there. She sweats when she sleeps and I could smell it. I whistled a quiet rise-and-fall. Well well well.

"Come here baby," I slurred, and patted out a little spot for her on the couch. I was infatuated with her fleshy curves and strange sticky odour. I put my nose in her ear and we tickled each other.

"That's a good pussy cat," I said. "Now be a dear and fix me a drink then hand me my lute."

Ah, my lovely lute, my best old friend. I mumbled out a song, playing along to the compact disc. I sang noises, not words. I didn't want to use that part of my brain.

You didn't think I would do something as cliche as serenade her, did you?

"It's all theatre, baby," I took another drink and exhaled softly. "I've been out balling and it makes me sick. The drugs, the alcohol, the false feelings that trick you. But what I have here is real." I squeezed her bottom and kissed her till I was bored. I played my lute some more. Ahhhhhhh.

I played to her the prettiest melody I knew. Sort of this folksy little jive in G. Then I tossed the instrument on the floor. Crash!

"Oopsy daisy," I laughed. She was frightened. "But such is love."

I took off her nightgown. "Now let's not be afraid to mess up this fancy-ass couch you've got here."


I awoke to her two cats licking my face. This bird beside me was disgusting and smelled like cigarettes.

I whispered in her ear: "You disgust me."

She turned her back on me and made a whimpering sound. Oh this is bloody real all right!

So I busted up my lute, my old friend, and used it as firewood. Watching the flames reminded me of simpler times--youth, poetry, and the caveman. I returned to the bedroom, told her I was a dumb-ass and sick, and asked her to come sit with me by the fire. She refused, but accepted my offer of a smoke. She wasn't so bad, really, just fucked-up like the rest of us.

I put on my sunglasses, afraid of crying, and walked out into the cold. Goodbye, fair instrument. Bloody hell it was early and it was cold. My suit was filthy and the morning joggers made me feel like a rat.

1 comment:

jorg wobblington lopez said...

There's nothing quite like a good lute playing. Comparable only to the hand pipes.