The Whiskey Monologues

SHELTER

“I find shelter, in this way,” sang the female voice from my laptop for the umpteenth time. “Under cover, hide away.”

We’d forgone the night’s festivities to lay here, abandoning our tickets to collect dust on the night stand. She didn’t really care for my favorite band anyhow, and our present situation seemed far superior. The half-drained highballs of fine-blend, the same soothing notes playing over and over, saturating our mood as we made jagged, un-timed motions in the unkempt, white sheets. I felt delightfully fuzzy as my eyes traced her angular form, the delicate, waif-like brunette resting naked, on her stomach, by my side.

We’d been here for hours, and neither one of us made a move to leave or improve the setting. I was under the impression we both felt perfect — the whisky, the song, our bodies enveloped in the dim sunlight barely pouring through the blinds — but I dare not ask. I couldn’t fathom breaking the atmosphere we’d built.

“It felt so crystal, in the air.”

Finally, her eyelids slightly cracked, and she lifted her head. “Shouldn’t we be at your show?” I leaned over and kissed her half-parted lips, all whisky vapor and adulation, and her fingers gently caught my shoulder blade. “It doesn’t matter,” I replied. “I like this better.” She sleepily nodded, and her lips reached for mine. I kissed her again. The sun made itself even less present, settling into twilight, and her head sunk back into the pillow. She mouthed the words, “And I’ll cross oceans, like never before, so you can feel, the way I feel it, too.”

By the time the chorus sauntered back through our ears, her arm reached around my torso and pulled me closer. I pressed against her, and pushed her hair away from her eyes. It fell right back. She smiled. So did I. Taking another sip of the Johnny Walker Black, I thought about the music we’d eschewed, the janky guitars, the warbly vocals, the flawless harmonies. In comparison to this moment, they meant nothing.

(Song: Shelter, by The xx.)

MAKE YOU FEEL LIKE NEVER BEFORE



A gallery of ticket stubs adorns our wall:

Radiohead at the Hollywood Bowl;

The Black Keys at the Palladium;

Vampire Weekend at the Music Box;

A house of memories built by hundreds of one inch by three-inch blocks of paper. Remember when you had to drag me to The Kills at the Trobadour because I didn’t think they could recreate Midnight Boom live with any sort of tenacity? You always did have a knack for proving me wrong.

Of all the bricks we’ve acquired during our tryst, the one I prefer most is the Dirty Projectors at the Wiltern. The one show we decided to stay at home instead. We wanted to go; we spent the ninety dollars on tickets, we called the cab to pick us up, but the Johnny Walker was too smooth, our bodies too perfectly configured in bed to leave. When “Heart Skipped A Beat” by The xx came on shuffle it was the nail in our coffin. I got up to get us more black label, you changed the iPod to repeat. We relived that perfect moment again and again that night, four minutes and two seconds at a time.

I told you there was no way the whiskey could taste any better. You took my glass and I watched as you began to let some drip between your thighs. You always did have a knack for proving me wrong.

(Song: Heart Skipped A Beat, by The xx.)