Part Thirteen
She took another drink of her vodka and undressed, furiously tearing her t-shirt and shorts off, revealing again to me my wonderful work all over her body. She grabbed up her bottle, leaned over me and placed the tip of the bottle to my lips as I raised my head to drink from it. Looking into her eyes as she watched me drink, I scanned her demeanor for some sign of her intent. The baling wire cut into my wrists and ankles – my comfort was clearly not her concern, nor did she seem interested in continuing to control me with her uncanny suggestions. But in her eyes she was calm – as calm as the two of us sitting on a sofa, two friends having a congenial conversation over tea, and yet I was a slave to her will.
Drink after drink she took, and drink after drink she fed me until the vodka was gone. Shaky and unsure of her footing, she stood and balanced herself across the room, retrieved my sharpie and came stumbling back. Her body was a blur now, all black lines and hazy flesh, and I feared for a moment that she would realize my dream and start coming apart before me. But she didn’t. She fell over me, her elbow digging full-weight into my ribs, and I cried out in agony.
Through the drunken morning and into the afternoon she marked my body, slowly and painstakingly through her inebriation, and there was nothing I could do but lie back and let her. She said nothing and went about her work, humming occasionally as the tattooist before her had done. I closed my eyes, listening to her humming and concentrating on the feel of that felt tip pressing into my skin in constant lines and circles. I could think only Yes, Yes, again Yes, until I faded off to sleep.
The tell-tale street-side sound of a Harley-Davidson roar brought me ricocheting out of my slumber. The motorcycle thundered past very near my head, where my face pressed into the stinking moist street gutter and my ribs thrummed in pain against the the curb. In this startled awakening I rolled off the curb and into the street on my back. I stared up into the dawning light, oblivious to my position squarely in the northbound lane of traffic. My body thrummed and my head throbbed. I didn’t care. Then came the rhythmic voice again, a muffled timpani, Yes, Yes, again Yes.
I stood up, careful of my aches and wincing through the stiffness in my joints. I noticed that I was clothed again, and my postits and sharpie had been returned to my pocket. Yes. I limped up the sidewalk to the first dismal building on the block, Yes, a run-down old bar, the parking lot empty now and the neon without its luster. Again Yes. I walked right up to the front door and wrote in large fat letters, Fraternity, and moved on to the next building. Yes.
Examining the backs of my hands as I walked, I remembered the felt-tip pen, the marks, the labels. On the back of my left hand she’d written Yes, Yes and the right, Again Yes.
Drink after drink she took, and drink after drink she fed me until the vodka was gone. Shaky and unsure of her footing, she stood and balanced herself across the room, retrieved my sharpie and came stumbling back. Her body was a blur now, all black lines and hazy flesh, and I feared for a moment that she would realize my dream and start coming apart before me. But she didn’t. She fell over me, her elbow digging full-weight into my ribs, and I cried out in agony.
Through the drunken morning and into the afternoon she marked my body, slowly and painstakingly through her inebriation, and there was nothing I could do but lie back and let her. She said nothing and went about her work, humming occasionally as the tattooist before her had done. I closed my eyes, listening to her humming and concentrating on the feel of that felt tip pressing into my skin in constant lines and circles. I could think only Yes, Yes, again Yes, until I faded off to sleep.
The tell-tale street-side sound of a Harley-Davidson roar brought me ricocheting out of my slumber. The motorcycle thundered past very near my head, where my face pressed into the stinking moist street gutter and my ribs thrummed in pain against the the curb. In this startled awakening I rolled off the curb and into the street on my back. I stared up into the dawning light, oblivious to my position squarely in the northbound lane of traffic. My body thrummed and my head throbbed. I didn’t care. Then came the rhythmic voice again, a muffled timpani, Yes, Yes, again Yes.
I stood up, careful of my aches and wincing through the stiffness in my joints. I noticed that I was clothed again, and my postits and sharpie had been returned to my pocket. Yes. I limped up the sidewalk to the first dismal building on the block, Yes, a run-down old bar, the parking lot empty now and the neon without its luster. Again Yes. I walked right up to the front door and wrote in large fat letters, Fraternity, and moved on to the next building. Yes.
Examining the backs of my hands as I walked, I remembered the felt-tip pen, the marks, the labels. On the back of my left hand she’d written Yes, Yes and the right, Again Yes.
© 2006Labelman
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