I had been sober for
awhile and was getting that
itch to drink.
I couldn’t recall the
degradation and misery of
the last drunk, a few months
earlier.
It was spring, and I was standing
outside of the flophouse, I was
staying at.
Just then, a big sunflower of
a woman walked by.
“Hi Jenny,” I said.
We had a past.
Not much of one, though.
It resembled a Dali painting that
had been soaking in the rain.
We ended up in a motel with a
bottle of Absinthe.
Jenny wasn’t much of a drinker,
No problem, more for me.
Jenny wasn’t much of a
conversationalist, and half-lit on
robust booze, neither was I.
I walked around the room, talking
about Hemingway and Van Gogh,
Fitzgerald and Picasso.
Jenny wasn’t interested in them.
She wanted me to score her some dope.
She said, “If you want this pussy, you
will buy me an eight ball.”
I didn’t.
I wanted to write, but I was too drunk.
We wanted different things and neither
of us
found them that night.
And later, at about 3 a.m., when I got
up to piss, I could have sworn I saw the
picture of Van Gogh on the box of Absinthe
laughing.
Outstanding piece Thomas. Descriptive, raw and intriguing. The ending hits this one out of the park! GREAT!
Thank you. I appreciate it.
This is marvelous
Thank you.
You’re welcome