A bender remembered, the end, Part 1

The house is empty. Acoustically, it is phenomenal, and the echoes are free making me feel that all my ghosts are purged. Out of the darkness and filth of a lost weekend, many truths were revealed, and what was formerly a confused ball of tangled twine now seems a straight road leading to who-knows-where. I'll close the door behind me and won't look back; it has been my motto since viewing the Pennebaker film.

I slammed--slammed!--a bottle of absinthe before walking to Natahsa's flat. Solemnly I walked through Gibbon's forest, now empty, and remembered the blonde girl I thought would be my new beginning but who I never heard from again. (But I never really loved her; she just reminded me of Julie Christie). I pulled my flask from the secret pocket of my coat and slammed--slammed!--a little more. The moon was yellow and there was three of them. Though elated and internally spitting swears, I knew this was not like other benders. It was much more philosophical.

As I exited the gates I danced like a serpent that had other serpents for arms. When I arrived at the flat, Natasha looked slutty, but not in a gaudy way: she simply dressed unabashedly, refusing to hide the sensual animal lurking beneath.

"Hello sweetheart," I said as I walked in, and I slapped her lovely bottom.

"Nigel! That is no way to treat a lady."

"A lady? Where? All I see is a whore."

I seemed to hit a nerve with that one.

"Nigel," she said. "I thought we could make this work."

"Fuck off," said I. "You're a whore, baby, so let's stop pretending. You're nothing. Come on. You're on the meter you filthy bird. Act like I want you to because you're mine."

She had a tear in her eye but I wiped it away and told her to get serious. We called a taxi and moved on to the dinner party.