Chapter Eighteen
The saxophone is still squealing that god-awful 'tune', although the band left hours ago. When it was still dark, probably; right now shafts of sunlight are splitting my head open, glaring through the patches in the black tape covering the windows. Dust particles swim about in the suffocating air, dancing in their spotlights, settling on his matted hair and the table around it. He hasn't stirred for the twenty-seven minutes I've been awake, though the silence should have been enough to send him shooting up in his seat. I don't want to move because I know the second I do, the pain that is slowly brewing in the back of my skull will shift to whichever part of my cigarette-smoke-soaked body it thinks it can cause the most damage.
Six minutes after I have gently shifted my ass to its other cheek and a sharp ache has swept down my neck and spine, his face finally turns to my direction as I light a cigarette. His eyes barely open but I can sense, behind the glaze, a questioning.
"Where the hell am I?"
Ten points to me. "In the club."
"Still? How?"
"What's with the questions? What are you, the one-man Spanish Inquisition? You passed out. The band left. I fell asleep, thanks to your riveting companionship. Now we're awake and it's morning and I want bacon. That enough for you?"
Without waiting for a response, because I am hungover and could give Oscar The Grouch a run for his money, I almost slide off the chair and onto my feet, nearly crawling to the door, and crack it open. The sunlight almost blinds me, and the deafening crunchandthud behind me hints that there was no almost about it for him back there. There's a scrape of chair legs on lino as he heaves himself to his feet. "Where are we going?"
I don't bother to answer, just step out into the daylight and hobble the fifty-six steps to the nearest greasy-spoon.
Over the course of fourteen minutes, he spends nine and three-quarters of them staring at me quizzically. I spend them split between staring at my espresso and out the window. Suddenly, I catch sight of someone and dive to the door like a bull at a gate. The frame digs into my palm and i grip it with one hand and swing round the door-frame, an impressive pole-dance for someone with a hangover quite like mine. I don't bother to tell him where I'm going; I'll be back in a second. I throw my arms around their waist, feel their spine dig into my chest. A flitter of worry goes through me but I brush it away and nuzzle my face up to his ear. His hand falls to his groin, but he slides his fingers into his pocket and flicks two tickets towards me, the way a street magician shows you the card you picked but didn't tell. I nibble his earlobe and skip back into the cafe. The table's empty. I don't move, but my eyes flit around the room. I catch a few eyes and sympathetic looks away, and stride to the table. It's OK, there's still a puddle of thick black tar in the mug, and no nearly-divorced-ex-business-who's-decided-to-find-himself would leave that much caffeine in one place, especially if they bought it. Sure enough, head down, he stumbles out of the bathroom with an embarrassed face, and takes hold of my elbow in the manner of a policeman. He tugs me to the pavement without a word.
Six minutes after I have gently shifted my ass to its other cheek and a sharp ache has swept down my neck and spine, his face finally turns to my direction as I light a cigarette. His eyes barely open but I can sense, behind the glaze, a questioning.
"Where the hell am I?"
Ten points to me. "In the club."
"Still? How?"
"What's with the questions? What are you, the one-man Spanish Inquisition? You passed out. The band left. I fell asleep, thanks to your riveting companionship. Now we're awake and it's morning and I want bacon. That enough for you?"
Without waiting for a response, because I am hungover and could give Oscar The Grouch a run for his money, I almost slide off the chair and onto my feet, nearly crawling to the door, and crack it open. The sunlight almost blinds me, and the deafening crunchandthud behind me hints that there was no almost about it for him back there. There's a scrape of chair legs on lino as he heaves himself to his feet. "Where are we going?"
I don't bother to answer, just step out into the daylight and hobble the fifty-six steps to the nearest greasy-spoon.
Over the course of fourteen minutes, he spends nine and three-quarters of them staring at me quizzically. I spend them split between staring at my espresso and out the window. Suddenly, I catch sight of someone and dive to the door like a bull at a gate. The frame digs into my palm and i grip it with one hand and swing round the door-frame, an impressive pole-dance for someone with a hangover quite like mine. I don't bother to tell him where I'm going; I'll be back in a second. I throw my arms around their waist, feel their spine dig into my chest. A flitter of worry goes through me but I brush it away and nuzzle my face up to his ear. His hand falls to his groin, but he slides his fingers into his pocket and flicks two tickets towards me, the way a street magician shows you the card you picked but didn't tell. I nibble his earlobe and skip back into the cafe. The table's empty. I don't move, but my eyes flit around the room. I catch a few eyes and sympathetic looks away, and stride to the table. It's OK, there's still a puddle of thick black tar in the mug, and no nearly-divorced-ex-business-who's-decided-to-find-himself would leave that much caffeine in one place, especially if they bought it. Sure enough, head down, he stumbles out of the bathroom with an embarrassed face, and takes hold of my elbow in the manner of a policeman. He tugs me to the pavement without a word.
posted by Gutterflower at 10:18 PM
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