(no subject)
Brigits Flame Prompt: Chaos. -- The idea here is that true chaos manifests itself when chaos is denied. Don't know if that came through or not. (suggestions for other titles welcome)
"Chaos"
“Hey, that the skinny fuck you’re bringing for me tonight?” I hear a laugh like Tigger’s as Jack stoops to survey the data analysis that is supposed to cover my computer screen. I crack my knuckles and shove him back.
“Hell no. This is an airbrushed internet whore with fake tits. And probably crabs.”
“Damn shame.”
“Not even worth a visit to the men’s room.” Jack smirks; he grips the back of my chair and rolls me out from behind my desk. The rubber heels of my leather shoes dig into the floor as a brake. I skootch my legs back under my desk and fasten my pants. He laughs like Tigger.
“Tell me about her again” Jack bounces on his heels. His mouth is open in an awkward grimace, his tongue rubbing his canine tooth as though polishing it. “She’s blonde, right? No, dark. Exotic black waterfall of hair. Or redhead. Curly. Kinky. “
“She’s a skinny little fuck, that’s all you need to know.”
“And she’s a sure thing, yeah?” I look at him. The incriminating windows on my computer disappear and I open a game of solitaire.
“Jacky, with enough money everything’s a ‘sure thing.’”
He licks his lips. “That’s why we got the jobs with the ties, ain’t it?” He loosens his tie: emerald silk with purple pinstripes. No doubt something his wife picked for him. Thank god mine has better taste.
The car is cold; the cigarette lighter isn’t working - something Jack makes sure to subtly point out a half dozen times.
“I’m just saying, what the fuck good’s a new Lexus with no cigarette lighter? Fuckin puts a guy off his game.”
“Your game’ll be just fine as long as those fifties are still in your pocket.”
“Why, she a whore? Straight up whore? I can hire my own whore, Randy.”
“She’s not a whore. But that don’t mean she can’t be bought.” Jack laughs like Tigger and claps his hands. He cracks his hairy knuckles.
“That’s why I keep you around, Randy. You’re all insightful and shit.”
I brake for a red light. I hear a faint electronic rendition of Hotel California, Jack flips open his phone to see the screen and promptly snaps it shut again. “Ball and chain,” he grunts. It begins to rain.
“You ever feel guilty?” I ask, indicating the phone. Jack futilely attempts to shake the cigarette lighter to life. He scratches his balls. He rolls down the window and spits.
“Guilty? The fuck would I feel guilty for?” I don’t answer. For a little while we sit, listening to the rhythm of rain and windshield wipers.
“Sometimes I feel like we’re making our problems worse.”
“Speak for yourself, shithead, I ain’t got problems. Marriage is a fucking problem. For lots of people. Not me. I am in a good place, yes sir.” He laughs like Tigger and holds the end of his cigarette to the broken lighter.
The bar is painfully familiar, coated in plush velvet, valuable sports memorabilia, and sour bullshit.
“May I take your coats? My, my, is it raining outside? Would you like a towel perhaps … ?” A bartender babbles; we walk past him into the back room of the bar. He calls amiably to our retreating backs, “Your drinks of choice are waiting in your room!”
Jack was right. His skinny little fuck’s a blonde. And I’m right too. She’s a sure thing. Mine plays more. Tougher, fiery - skin like rum, tits like plum pits and eyes like almonds. She pushes me back, slides her hand between us, but it’s only play - she’s a sure thing too. I devour her.
I finish quickly; mother always taught me not to play with my food. As I sip my drink and snap casual pictures with my cellphone, I can’t help but hear Jack’s grunts and moans. Mostly to drown them out, I address her. “What if we woke up tomorrow and everything was different?”
Her cheeks are flushed, hair messy; like dark yarn unraveling around her hard little nips. I turn her face away from mine and tweak them absentmindedly. “Different how?” she purrs.
My hand flattens, I begin to stroke her chest and wander down. “Messy. Complicated.”
She twists in my lap and tangles her fingers in my tie-- I never bothered to fully undress. She pulls me close, kisses my forehead and guides my face further down her body. Her arms wrap around my head. “Silly. Your life will never be complicated.” She rests a cold tit on each of my cheeks. “Your life is perfect.”
She smells like raspberries and gin and smoke - and that metallic odor around gasoline. “Perfect,” I murmur.
She shifts, lifts one leg around my neck. Lifts the other. “Here’s perfection,” she coos. Her hands rub my head, massage my temples, guide me down. She tastes like overcooked broccoli; I remember my manners and eat what’s set before me without complaint.
My cell phone rings, so I stop what I’m doing and shut it off. “Do you ever feel like everything above you is supported by toothpicks, and it’s all about to fall and crush you?” I ask.
Her hands enclose mine and try to guide them back to her body. “I never think that way” she says.
“And that makes it less true?” Her fingers fiddle with the buttons on my shirt. I swat her away. She rolls off of me and rises like Cleopatra; she holds herself like she hasn’t got a hungry kid at home whose daddy died in a car accident, like she was never fired for being pregnant, like her sister doesn’t live in a mobile home in Kansas. There is no trace of any hardship in her body. Her shoulders are light. Gracefully her knees bend and she kneels down. I weave my fingers through her hair as she gently lays her head in my lap. I am warm and drunk and blissfully numb - and I try my very best to lose myself in the steady progress of her lips and tongue while the storm rages outside and my wife slashes her wrists in our bedroom.