It is only her ongoing recovery and concurrent
developing relationship with Brother Skunk as finally afford ache1
the requisite courage to take dinner in the hotel’s main restaurant, having
previously ordered all food sent to her room.
When they walk in they do so fortified by their holding
hands and by the having already consumed the full capacity of his hipflask; confirming
her current room number they are seated at a table for four with just the two
place settings, conveniently permitting her E.T. doll take a chair between them
rather than being left on the floor, or taking up space on the table itself.
Approached by one of the waiting staff, Skunk in his
nervousness hears himself respond to their question almost before its having
been asked,
cog: Can I get you anything to drink?
Skunk: Triple Jack Daniel’s no ice no mixer.
cog: Excellent,
then to ache1, and from prior experience
of her room service already writing down her answer
cog: and for you?
ache1: I’ll take one of my Mooseheads in
the bottle…
cog:
ache1: ..and a triple Jack Daniel’s no
ice no mixer.
At that point he believes she thinks him considering
his options from the menu, Brother Skunk instead watches ache1, herself
watching her E.T. doll between them with an expression the deciphering of which
he finds impossible, but which does again result in his albeit momentary questioning
of himself, and where all of this might be headed.
Though both will later reminisce back to this
evening with a deal of joy, still neither will be able to recall a single word
of their meal’s accompanying conversation, nor even indeed what either of them
ate.
Their table grows its green bottles, and empty
glasses.
Later, awaiting their forgettable desserts, ache1
asks a passing waiter for the borrow of his pen
ache1: Just, literally not for even a
minute, I promise.
and then
ache1: Skunk give me your hand.
taking Skunk’s now proffered left to turn it palm
side up before, secreting the activity with her other hand, she executes upon
the flesh some manner of either text or graphic, he cannot discern which.
He feels his palm begin to burn beneath the pen’s repeated
and inebriate hard passage of her every subsequent attempt, thwarted as she is
by the slightly moist surface of his skin barely holding the ink, but
persevering until, with this inscription finally complete, she can fold the sticky
clump of his fingers back in upon it.
ache1: There, that’s for you and just for you. Please take care of it.
quickly reaching back across to prevent him the opening
of his hand
ache1 (her face reddening): Oh God not now, not now. Please? Give me that, at least.
Through their unbroken conversation during dessert, through
coffee and after, through their eventual protracted goodbye, he forgets absolutely
this moment to have ever taken place, and is in fact more than halfway home when
he suddenly remembers and moves beneath the nearest streetlight, opening his
palm only to find whatever it was she had written, or drawn, has in fact completely
disappeared.
