look who's literary! or at least is trying to be.
“Twenty-seven. I swear to God it was twenty-seven.”
A near-empty glass bottle was set on a dressing table.
“Twenty-seven, and I swear to God I wouldn’t have it any other way.” The words were slurred and barely intelligible.
The bottle wasn’t stationary long. A pale, bony hand wrapped around its transparent neck and lifted the bottle from its perch.
“I chose that number because it was balanced.”
Fragrant, cheap whisky burned the throat and resulted in a heavy growl, ripe with intoxication and despair.
“You’re drunk.” Another voice, clear and sober.
“You’re drunk and you don’t know what you’re saying. Hell, I don’t know what you’re saying.” It was a patronizing voice.
“I’m not drunk. I’m liberated.”
“You’re drunk.”
The last possible physical ingestion from the bottle was seized. The hand opposite the protector of the bottle brushed its backside against limp, chapped lips, reshaping beads of sweat that lay still on washed-out skin.
“What I like about twenty-seven is that it’s balanced.” The words are still connected and muffled.
“How so…?”
“You get thirteen on one side and thirteen on the other and one in the middle. The middle one’s real special.”
“Why is the middle one so important?”
“Because you’ve got two sides of bad luck. And one of com-ten-blay-shun-or contem…uh…thinking.”
There was a brief pause. It left enough time for both people to collect their thoughts and understand what had just been said.
“Why would you need a digit of contemplation?”
“Because one year usually is enough time.” That was the clearest thing under the influence said all night.
The sober individual didn’t say anything else.
“You need a full year, Maxine. A full year.”
“You’re drunk and you don’t know what you’re saying.” Her voice bathed in denial.
The bony hand returned to the neck of the bottle, trying to grasp the smoothness so that any leftovers that hadn’t evaporated would promptly be inserted into the oral cavity, and the ethyl molecules would diffuse graciously into the cells, producing a sort of numbing ecstasy. Motions could not be controlled and the physical body would be heavy and useless. The only thing that felt nearly intact would be the calculating, rapidly disintegrating mind.
Maxine felt sweat forming atop her lips again. She was tempted to wipe it, but did not. The room was hot and moist, but her insides felt inexplicably cold as though she had swallowed liquid nitrogen, or perhaps death. It was a feverish feeling that made Maxine frightened to move. She could not lift a limb or part her lips because the iciness might spread through her veins, a most unpleasant sensation.
“I don’t seem to have any more whiskey left. Would you be a dear and get me the bottle beneath the sink?”
Maxine said nothing. She sat stiffly and pretended not to hear the drunkard’s request. The room was still hot and moist. With a struggle, her hand was raised to her brow and the pads of her fingers flattened beads of salty sweat. The fingers moved slowly along the side of her face, to her chin, returning to their home on her lap.
“I’ll be right back.” She said.
A near-empty glass bottle was set on a dressing table.
“Twenty-seven, and I swear to God I wouldn’t have it any other way.” The words were slurred and barely intelligible.
The bottle wasn’t stationary long. A pale, bony hand wrapped around its transparent neck and lifted the bottle from its perch.
“I chose that number because it was balanced.”
Fragrant, cheap whisky burned the throat and resulted in a heavy growl, ripe with intoxication and despair.
“You’re drunk.” Another voice, clear and sober.
“You’re drunk and you don’t know what you’re saying. Hell, I don’t know what you’re saying.” It was a patronizing voice.
“I’m not drunk. I’m liberated.”
“You’re drunk.”
The last possible physical ingestion from the bottle was seized. The hand opposite the protector of the bottle brushed its backside against limp, chapped lips, reshaping beads of sweat that lay still on washed-out skin.
“What I like about twenty-seven is that it’s balanced.” The words are still connected and muffled.
“How so…?”
“You get thirteen on one side and thirteen on the other and one in the middle. The middle one’s real special.”
“Why is the middle one so important?”
“Because you’ve got two sides of bad luck. And one of com-ten-blay-shun-or contem…uh…thinking.”
There was a brief pause. It left enough time for both people to collect their thoughts and understand what had just been said.
“Why would you need a digit of contemplation?”
“Because one year usually is enough time.” That was the clearest thing under the influence said all night.
The sober individual didn’t say anything else.
“You need a full year, Maxine. A full year.”
“You’re drunk and you don’t know what you’re saying.” Her voice bathed in denial.
The bony hand returned to the neck of the bottle, trying to grasp the smoothness so that any leftovers that hadn’t evaporated would promptly be inserted into the oral cavity, and the ethyl molecules would diffuse graciously into the cells, producing a sort of numbing ecstasy. Motions could not be controlled and the physical body would be heavy and useless. The only thing that felt nearly intact would be the calculating, rapidly disintegrating mind.
Maxine felt sweat forming atop her lips again. She was tempted to wipe it, but did not. The room was hot and moist, but her insides felt inexplicably cold as though she had swallowed liquid nitrogen, or perhaps death. It was a feverish feeling that made Maxine frightened to move. She could not lift a limb or part her lips because the iciness might spread through her veins, a most unpleasant sensation.
“I don’t seem to have any more whiskey left. Would you be a dear and get me the bottle beneath the sink?”
Maxine said nothing. She sat stiffly and pretended not to hear the drunkard’s request. The room was still hot and moist. With a struggle, her hand was raised to her brow and the pads of her fingers flattened beads of salty sweat. The fingers moved slowly along the side of her face, to her chin, returning to their home on her lap.
“I’ll be right back.” She said.