without a closing time (or someone to blame) [9/?]
two songs that managed to unlock my writer's block this time, 'New York, New York' from the movie Shameless, and 'Love of the loveless'. I've uploaded the mp3s if anyone wants a listen
http://uploading.com/files/get/c2234567/New%2BYork%252Bloveless.rar
The one lasting memory Ricki has of his mother is the thick fall of her blond curls, brushing against his forehead as she tucks the duvet in.
Up close her smile is a vibrant, distorted curve, shifting from passion pink to Manhattan magenta in the dim lighting.
----Go to sleep, baby, sleep.
The dentist has done a great job fixing the chip at the front.
She tells people that she’s hopelessly clumsy, falls over in the bathroom and hitting her head on the edge of the tub. And nobody is the wiser.
At night she’s Roxanna the sassy pub owner, or Hester the melodramatic wife, dying for love over and over again.
He lingers at the back of the empty theatre and watches, slack jawed. Understanding half of the words and too enthralled to fill in the rest.
Her co-star screams at her and she falls to her knees, hands grasping his shirt weakly, lips trembling. A plate shutters against the prop wall.
She never fails to cry on cue.
Years later, Ricki realizes that it’s probably kinder, the car crash. The men in her life would have done the deed sooner or later, slowly, painfully, stomping out one spark at a time.
Adrian finds him slouched over on the doorstep, eyes half shut, either from lack of sleep or the cigarette he’s puffing away on. Peter has the kind of face that never betrays fatigue. He never looks truly knackered the way normal people do. Tiredness translates to a fragility in Peter; a softening of his features, the way he holds himself.
For a moment, Adrian feels intensely irritated, and grips his suitcase tighter.
‘Adrian, I---‘
He holds up a hand,
‘I never get any sleep on planes, and I can smell myself. So,’ he slots the key into the lock, twisting it open, ‘make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long.’
The living room looks exactly the same, albeit slightly dustier: week-old journals with colour coded highlights sprawled over the pages; the ratty cushions Peter has complained many times about; the cactus in the corner, determinedly surviving. And yet, it feels terribly presumptuous to just flop down on the couch (it’s not his home, not any more, not yet). So Peter stands stiffly by the doorway, both hands shoved into his coat pockets, trying his damn hardest not to fidget.
Adrian re-appears five minutes later, wiping moisture from his brow. He blinks when he spots Peter, momentarily surprised, before his expression morphs into nonchalance.
There are so many thoughts, words, war drums in Peter’s mind, racing and racing and he heaves a frustrated sigh. Adrian watches from a few feet away, eyes shadowed, unreadable.
‘Well?’
Which will be the bigger regret, which will it be----?
Drawing a shuddering breath, Peter opens his mouth,
And tells him.
Connie breezes into the office with stilettos dangling in one hand, fur shawl slipping down to her elbows before being unceremoniously dumped on the floor.
‘Darling,’ she sing-songs, ‘I have quite outdone myself this time.’
George peers at her flushed face over the top of his glasses; he’s familiar with this particular Con, of course, floating like the world is all soft and fuzzy around the edges.
‘Remember the ginger pig?’
She has names for all her regulars: ginger pig, white ferret, dotty owl, moulding them into starring roles in her enchanted tale with childlike delight.
George nods.
‘It just so happens he was there at the party too, with his wife, could you believe it?’ Connie sounds practically giddy, perched on the edge of the desk, ‘a wisp of a thing, but oh, what eyes, what eyes!’ her head lolls back, long white neck bared coquettishly, ‘voice all mellow and soft and dreadfully plummy. A bolt straight through the heart, I swear.’
George feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth; it’s more amusing than alarming really. Connie calls him her oldest, dearest lover. It’s one of the reasons she’s so good at this life, a brilliant mind plagued with bouts of idle fancy.
lsquo;You don’t believe a word I just said do you?’ Connie air slaps him, pouting.
‘I have no problem believing,’ George holds up both hands in surrender, ‘just stuck marveling at your timing.’
She taps out a cigarette with an eye roll, beckoning George closer to borrow a light. Her shoulders sag with the first leisurely drag, lashes fluttering. Always fully committed to the small pleasures in life, that’s Con.
‘Have you ever been in love, George?’
Ah, there it is, the unexpected claw to the underbelly. He sets the tea down carefully.
‘Maybe, I’m not sure, it’s been so long.’
‘Don’t mince your words, you shrew. I’ve seen the etching on that lighter.’
To George, with all my love.
‘It’s a good Ronson, they last.’ George doesn’t shrug, not outwardly anyways.
She shuffles closer, head comes to rest against her knees, bare toes wriggling. The hand she drops on his shoulder twitches like a bird longing for flight
‘Sooner or later love will make a fool of us all, dearie,’ now it’s the East End tart speaking, ‘ain’t no shame in that.'
It’s not easy to smuggle a person out, but,
‘Let’s just say I had a life before this, shall we?’ Ricki grins, slamming the door shut after Irina climbs in, lips a pale thin line.
The car streaks out of the parking lot like a scolded cat.
Ricki doesn’t take his foot off the accelerator until they are all the way down to the docks, tasting salt in every bite of wind. The one lone lamp by the side of the road flickers as he counts out all the notes in his wallet, dropping them in Irina’s lap when she stares back, unmoving.
The dusty passport he manages to unearth from the glove box only makes her gawp harder.
'Take it, no one can tell if they don’t look too closely.’
The girl in the grainy picture sports the same pale eyes, peeking out from beneath shaggy blond fringge, and apparently goes by the name Rosemary.
Irina tries to shape her mouth around the unfamiliar syllables, frowning.
‘Yeah, Rose. Always knew this would come in handy someday.’ Ricki scratches the back of his neck, chuckling, ‘a damn good copy too, mind you, got us through a few border controls.’
Flocks of wings flap past overhead, tearing at the inky sky with their hoarse cries.
‘Why?’
Ricki blinks, ‘why what?’
‘Why do you help?’ Irina bites out, uncharacteristically vicious, ‘what do you want?’
‘Because I can.’ Ricki taps against the steering wheel, suddenly itching for a cigarette, for a screen of smoke to shroud this conversation from imaginary ears, ‘because one day it will be too late.’
He doesn’t say one day there will be a chalk line on your pristine kitchen floor, tries not to imagine it either.
Once again silence worms itself into the empty spaces, leeching warmth from their skin. Irina gnaws on her knuckles, letting out small wet noises whenever she moves onto a new patch of skin.
Ricki opens the door and swings his legs down so he’s sitting half in and half out of the car,
‘Take it or leave it. I’m done preaching.’
Gravels crunch underneath his boots. He gets about twenty paces out when he hears his name, cut short by a fresh gust of wind.
Her long hair fans out behind her, twisting and flapping, face nothing but a blur, an underwater moon. The whole scene seems like a bad reenactment of all the other goodbyes he’s had over the years----by the side of the road, in a trashed room, on a hilltop in Hong Kong---it almost makes Ricki smile a little.
He sure has had a lot of practice walking away from things
http://uploading.com/files/get/c2234567/New%2BYork%252Bloveless.rar
The one lasting memory Ricki has of his mother is the thick fall of her blond curls, brushing against his forehead as she tucks the duvet in.
Up close her smile is a vibrant, distorted curve, shifting from passion pink to Manhattan magenta in the dim lighting.
----Go to sleep, baby, sleep.
The dentist has done a great job fixing the chip at the front.
She tells people that she’s hopelessly clumsy, falls over in the bathroom and hitting her head on the edge of the tub. And nobody is the wiser.
At night she’s Roxanna the sassy pub owner, or Hester the melodramatic wife, dying for love over and over again.
He lingers at the back of the empty theatre and watches, slack jawed. Understanding half of the words and too enthralled to fill in the rest.
Her co-star screams at her and she falls to her knees, hands grasping his shirt weakly, lips trembling. A plate shutters against the prop wall.
She never fails to cry on cue.
Years later, Ricki realizes that it’s probably kinder, the car crash. The men in her life would have done the deed sooner or later, slowly, painfully, stomping out one spark at a time.
Adrian finds him slouched over on the doorstep, eyes half shut, either from lack of sleep or the cigarette he’s puffing away on. Peter has the kind of face that never betrays fatigue. He never looks truly knackered the way normal people do. Tiredness translates to a fragility in Peter; a softening of his features, the way he holds himself.
For a moment, Adrian feels intensely irritated, and grips his suitcase tighter.
‘Adrian, I---‘
He holds up a hand,
‘I never get any sleep on planes, and I can smell myself. So,’ he slots the key into the lock, twisting it open, ‘make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long.’
The living room looks exactly the same, albeit slightly dustier: week-old journals with colour coded highlights sprawled over the pages; the ratty cushions Peter has complained many times about; the cactus in the corner, determinedly surviving. And yet, it feels terribly presumptuous to just flop down on the couch (it’s not his home, not any more, not yet). So Peter stands stiffly by the doorway, both hands shoved into his coat pockets, trying his damn hardest not to fidget.
Adrian re-appears five minutes later, wiping moisture from his brow. He blinks when he spots Peter, momentarily surprised, before his expression morphs into nonchalance.
There are so many thoughts, words, war drums in Peter’s mind, racing and racing and he heaves a frustrated sigh. Adrian watches from a few feet away, eyes shadowed, unreadable.
‘Well?’
Which will be the bigger regret, which will it be----?
Drawing a shuddering breath, Peter opens his mouth,
And tells him.
Connie breezes into the office with stilettos dangling in one hand, fur shawl slipping down to her elbows before being unceremoniously dumped on the floor.
‘Darling,’ she sing-songs, ‘I have quite outdone myself this time.’
George peers at her flushed face over the top of his glasses; he’s familiar with this particular Con, of course, floating like the world is all soft and fuzzy around the edges.
‘Remember the ginger pig?’
She has names for all her regulars: ginger pig, white ferret, dotty owl, moulding them into starring roles in her enchanted tale with childlike delight.
George nods.
‘It just so happens he was there at the party too, with his wife, could you believe it?’ Connie sounds practically giddy, perched on the edge of the desk, ‘a wisp of a thing, but oh, what eyes, what eyes!’ her head lolls back, long white neck bared coquettishly, ‘voice all mellow and soft and dreadfully plummy. A bolt straight through the heart, I swear.’
George feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth; it’s more amusing than alarming really. Connie calls him her oldest, dearest lover. It’s one of the reasons she’s so good at this life, a brilliant mind plagued with bouts of idle fancy.
lsquo;You don’t believe a word I just said do you?’ Connie air slaps him, pouting.
‘I have no problem believing,’ George holds up both hands in surrender, ‘just stuck marveling at your timing.’
She taps out a cigarette with an eye roll, beckoning George closer to borrow a light. Her shoulders sag with the first leisurely drag, lashes fluttering. Always fully committed to the small pleasures in life, that’s Con.
‘Have you ever been in love, George?’
Ah, there it is, the unexpected claw to the underbelly. He sets the tea down carefully.
‘Maybe, I’m not sure, it’s been so long.’
‘Don’t mince your words, you shrew. I’ve seen the etching on that lighter.’
To George, with all my love.
‘It’s a good Ronson, they last.’ George doesn’t shrug, not outwardly anyways.
She shuffles closer, head comes to rest against her knees, bare toes wriggling. The hand she drops on his shoulder twitches like a bird longing for flight
‘Sooner or later love will make a fool of us all, dearie,’ now it’s the East End tart speaking, ‘ain’t no shame in that.'
It’s not easy to smuggle a person out, but,
‘Let’s just say I had a life before this, shall we?’ Ricki grins, slamming the door shut after Irina climbs in, lips a pale thin line.
The car streaks out of the parking lot like a scolded cat.
Ricki doesn’t take his foot off the accelerator until they are all the way down to the docks, tasting salt in every bite of wind. The one lone lamp by the side of the road flickers as he counts out all the notes in his wallet, dropping them in Irina’s lap when she stares back, unmoving.
The dusty passport he manages to unearth from the glove box only makes her gawp harder.
'Take it, no one can tell if they don’t look too closely.’
The girl in the grainy picture sports the same pale eyes, peeking out from beneath shaggy blond fringge, and apparently goes by the name Rosemary.
Irina tries to shape her mouth around the unfamiliar syllables, frowning.
‘Yeah, Rose. Always knew this would come in handy someday.’ Ricki scratches the back of his neck, chuckling, ‘a damn good copy too, mind you, got us through a few border controls.’
Flocks of wings flap past overhead, tearing at the inky sky with their hoarse cries.
‘Why?’
Ricki blinks, ‘why what?’
‘Why do you help?’ Irina bites out, uncharacteristically vicious, ‘what do you want?’
‘Because I can.’ Ricki taps against the steering wheel, suddenly itching for a cigarette, for a screen of smoke to shroud this conversation from imaginary ears, ‘because one day it will be too late.’
He doesn’t say one day there will be a chalk line on your pristine kitchen floor, tries not to imagine it either.
Once again silence worms itself into the empty spaces, leeching warmth from their skin. Irina gnaws on her knuckles, letting out small wet noises whenever she moves onto a new patch of skin.
Ricki opens the door and swings his legs down so he’s sitting half in and half out of the car,
‘Take it or leave it. I’m done preaching.’
Gravels crunch underneath his boots. He gets about twenty paces out when he hears his name, cut short by a fresh gust of wind.
Her long hair fans out behind her, twisting and flapping, face nothing but a blur, an underwater moon. The whole scene seems like a bad reenactment of all the other goodbyes he’s had over the years----by the side of the road, in a trashed room, on a hilltop in Hong Kong---it almost makes Ricki smile a little.
He sure has had a lot of practice walking away from things