Neither
of them care that the shotglasses are downstairs in the kitchen; when ache1
finally grinds the cap from off the bottle, she flips it through the open
window and into the afternoon.
ache1:
That we will not be needing
and
even as these words finish, her mouth is filled with whiskey.
ache1
(swallowing): Our Benevolent Sponsor!
She
waggles the bottle at Skunk, he motionless, cross-sprawled on the bed, his back
against the wall.
Skunk:
I. Ain’t. Movin’.
ache1
(laughing): What kind of accent’s that?
Skunk
(shrugs): Appalachian?
At
this she shrugs herself, drinks again regarding him from across the room.
His want
he now makes known with a gesture that seems to involve separating his features
a fraction, a tiny wideness opening up amongst his face that so endears as to
have her deftly step through the carpet’s random constellations of scattered
marbles and join him there upon the bed, clambering adjacent.
Her
next swallow precipitates a calculated overspill from off her chin, a dampness
now spread dark upon the sweatshirt which predictably arouses some urge in him,
a flexing and stretching desire that rolls him over upon her, his mouth sucking
at the coarse fabric and the whiskey itself nothing more than backtaste, dulled
by whatever detergent in which her clothes are laundered.
ache1:
Skunk? Skunk, I, ahm, I think it musta soaked right through...
It
is of little, perhaps even no
consequence to Brother Skunk that her lust here is perfumed less with sex than
confrontation, so when, with the bottle clutched tight between her thighs, she
sits up and raises both arms expectant, he accordingly lifts the sweatshirt up
and off her chest, his jaws still thick and loose, unceasing at the material
even as it moves.
ache1
(indicating the vague pale amber stain spoiling the cotton vest just
above her breastbone): Hey...
Aware
of having exhausted the residue in the clothing held, and too that he has yet to taste the Jack Daniel’s untainted
Skunk:
What? I see nothing.
She
pours enough directly onto her vest for him to hear it pool and flow over.
Skunk
(watching her face as she so does): Jesus
and
then working his mouth at the saturation, the sodden cloth still holding taste
of her, something familiar absorbed from off the flesh beneath, retained.
ache1
(as before): Ahm, I think it musta soaked right through...
and
again, this time with her underwear, and again,
her breasts now wet with whiskey, and
Skunk:
What? You want me to take your skin
off?
ache1:
It’s your fault Skunk, you and your
God that didn’t see fit to give us bodies so that we could, that would allow us
to love each other hard enough*, or make it, make it ah...
They
kiss, and this time she closes her eyes.
*ache1
(alone, weeping): Sometimes when we’re fucking, I want you to fuck me
inside out, fuck my insides out of me even, so there’s nothing left in me but
you.
