The Whiskey Monologues

REMINDER

I stood before the floor to ceiling bookshelves, running my fingers over leather-bound editions and watching the gold letters flash with the passage of ceiling fan blades. He had quite a collection, especially for a man his age. Especial and in my heart, set apart and above, by my love for him and his mind.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked.

I turned to find him gesturing to me with the fifth of Beam gripped in his left hand, his eyes heavy from having drunk half its contents. I grinned. “Looking at your books, of course.”

“I read them all, but you would know that. Have you read them?”

“I know and most,” I said.

Something bluesy, sweet, and over-played hung in the air, “Wonderful Tonight” by Clapton. I listened for a moment, swaying in my own vodka-induced tipsy. No one plays guitar like Clapton. Not that he’s the best, just, he’s a master of that style. So it seemed as the notes slipped in my ears and curled up to nest in my heart.

“Dance with me, ‘Shelley.” A truly unusual offspring, I loved the nickname, and his request, no demand, sped my pulse.

We met at the end of the bed, arms coming around young, eager bodies to hold and mold until the zippers of our blue jeans scraped. Eyes so dark, the keepers of depths and universes, held mine, challenged mine.

“Kiss me,” I whispered as I gripped his sleeves and pulled until his chest flattened my breasts.

I watched his lashes lace to conceal his eyes as his lips met mine. Simple pressure, lips to lips. Tentative, seeking, but I nipped his lower lip. His eyes flashed open as he tilted his head. Mouths open, now, tongues bumping then slipping past one another, oh, excuse me, pardon me, yes, see, there’s room for both of us to venture here. My vodka mixed with his whiskey. The longing for exploration, the longing to be wanted as much as I wanted made themselves known in the urgency of my sighs and the strength with which I dug my fingers into his arms. The remnants of alcohol burned my eyes and nose as my needs burned much, much lower.

Interruption, as quick and brutal as a needle across a record. The kiss ended, but he still held me for a moment. A mistake – I could see the thought in his eyes and hated it. Then, he left me, under the ceiling fan, with nothing but the lingering warmth from where his body touched mine.

For two weeks, a bruise on my lower back reminded me of how he pressed the bottle against me while he held me. After it faded, the bruise on my heart took over the job.

Submitted by Summa.