This
night, the first of the nine they would spend in each other’s company, has not
been easy, and such is the silence between them here in the long room they can
clearly hear every spit and crack of burning wood in the fireplace at its far
end.
With
neither of them prepared to relinquish their own persistent wariness, or
definitively break through that of the other, both remain indebted to their
undertaking and its attendant logistics by which they might each for the moment
be individually engulfed, dwarfed by the enormity of tomorrow fulfilling
responsibility to their common promisee.
This
sense of discomfort has been prevalent since their meeting at the airport, the
drive into town and the subsequent restaurant meal passing in hesitant and
unsustained conversation, continuing to this point of the evening where that he
might excuse himself, Brother Skunk is out loud ascribing to jet lag a fatigue
far in excess of that from which he actually suffered.
Skunk
(squeezing at his ear; the tiny skunk’s sharp metal features bite agreeably
into the thick skin of his thumbtip, the gesture grounding him to a degree in
his dislocation): Look eh, if you if you eh, if you don’t mind, I think it’s
time
his
initially affected yawn becoming midway the real thing
Skunk:
for me to ehm, avail myself of some petite mort.
concerned
more with the pronunciation of the phrase than with its literal meaning, a
second’s thought to which would have proscribed its deployment.
deleted
name: Excuse me?
the
sudden incredulous set to his face causing Skunk’s own to colour in such a way
as made unmistakably manifest the degree of his ignorance.
Skunk
(the shade of his face deepening): Petite mort? Is that not a euphemism for
sleep? Little death?
deleted
name: No, no. God no. Petite mort is a euphemism, yes,
laughing
deleted
name: but it’s actually a euphemism for orgasm.
Skunk
(further embarrassed): No. Is it? No.
covering
his mouth with his hand.
Skunk:
Oh dear God.
suddenly
trying to mentally replay his every previous use of the expression.
Skunk:
Oh God. You know, I just must have picked that up wrong somewhere along the
line, and eh, nobody’s ever, well, that’s if anyone ever knew but…
nobody ever told me it was wrong. Jesus, I…
In
his embarrassment he resumes his seat, prompting deleted name to rise
from the sofa.
deleted
name: I’ll get us some more Mooseheads, you
pointing
emphatically at his young guest
deleted
name: don’t go noplace.
On
his way he stops to remove the fireguard, taking a thick, bark-covered log from
the adjacent basket to place carefully upon the flames before leaving the room.
In
his absence, Brother Skunk leans forward and unlaces each of his boots, placing
them by the empty bottles lining his walking stick alongside the chair. Through
his sock he massages and grasps at the irritated ankle as at the echoing
abrasion of an unfastened shackle, aware now of feeling a deal easier than he
had only moments before, and even with the prospect of tomorrow finds himself
able to relax at least a little, accepting his host as a man in whom he is
capable of placing faith.
In
such subdued lighting the two small prints on the opposite wall look so densely
black he imagines them windows giving onto the night behind, and is suddenly
disturbed by the occurring of two thoughts: he cannot remember if the year’s
Easter has already been or is yet to pass, and he wonders if the rain is
holding off and if it will continue so to do, disappointing himself that he
might even think of the following day in such practical terms.
His
mind thus roiling it is with evident relief he greets deleted name’s
return, taking the proffered Moosehead with
Skunk:
Cheers.
This
time they knock bottles.
deleted
name: Cheers.
and
crossing to the record player presses buttons that cause to erupt from the
speakers a residual electrical hum of such volume as to abruptly register in
Skunk’s stomach and lungs a reduction in the room’s requisite oxygen.
deleted
name (lowering the needle onto the rotating vinyl surface): I want you to
hear this, Skunk.
