Monday, October 20, 2008

Tastes like trouble: III

The cab ride supplied me with a second beating. Between the stolen drugs and the honest pain the ride was a blur. I gave the driver a huge tip, or stiffed him. I couldn’t figure out the bills with my one tear-filled eye. The cabbie yelled something as I slammed the door. I replied in kind and was lucky enough to find my balance before the car sped out from under my weight.

I can’t remember the stairs or how I got in the apartment. I washed some more pills down with a warm beer. The lip of the bottle tasted like strawberries. My mind fluttered with images of her sweet smile and beautiful body. I was going to have to thank her for the nicest transition into unconsciousness I've had in the past few days.

She screamed. That is how I woke up. I jumped and howled from the pain in my chest. She screamed again. She hadn’t seen me on the couch and I provided her with a second fright. Her first scare had been caused by the state of her apartment. I hadn’t noticed when I came in but the door was nearly off its hinges. And everything else must have grown legs and run from whatever came in. The place was a mess. It was a toss up for who was in worse shape, 403 cherry lane. apt 214 or me.

I’m standing in front of most of her bathroom mirror. Finally putting a picture to the pain. I was swollen and black and blue. She was trying to put things back together while she looked for her bandages and peroxide. The metaphor of the broken mirror didn’t escape me, but there was no point in putting meaning into it.

She grabbed my ass as she came into the bathroom and turned on the bathtub. I went for the beer. She had blocked the door with the couch and drew the blinds. How much trouble did she know I was in? Did she know what was going on better than me? I couldn’t honestly remember how I got onto the boat or for sure why. I would have to ask, after my bath.

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