Sourceless
emotions in the hotel car-park’s dark a.m., where a supine Brother Skunk lay
listening to the quiet grinding mechanism of the security camera pole-mounted
high behind him, its dual infra-red lamps describing a recurrent arc of unseen
beams.
He
was residual drunk and tired, sexually so, his prick like a just struck match,
and ache1 to join him here soon; they will walk the grounds a little
before returning to her bed.
Skunk:
This is what we do, Jesus, this is what we do
here.
Nothing
physical perhaps, but rather something in the hum of invisible light that swept
his body, relaying his image to the two monochrome monitors (one behind
reception, one just inside the main door) that had him smile and laugh, and
laugh hysterically. He began to roll sideside on the tarmac, a pain arriving
and settling in the fatigue of his shoulderblades as he rocked back and forth
and back and forth and back and now over onto his side, doubling up into
himself as the weeping came, and in the context of his own peculiar defiance of
this did he start to scrape and chafe his face upon the blacktop hard beneath
his cheek, the abrasion hot and damp, then actually, thickly, wet with its
seeping blood, continuing on until her hands forced him once again supine, her
handkerchief out and pressed to the burn upon his face.
ache1:
Don’t do this Skunk. Don’t do this. Babe? Don’t do this to me. Please. Please don’t do this...
He
stared past her up into the sky, watching the stars as if he might see them
move off from him, from them both, while the planet upon whose surface she held
him close revolved in its orbit of the slow-coming sun.
