|Time Machines & Lightning
||[Jan. 20th, 2017|05:38 pm]
"Don't you dare tell me how far to set my time-machine," she says relighting the same cigarette again, "I'm going back to when being alive actually meant something. When the drugs were an escape from reality instead of reality being an escape from the drugs. When I could hold my whiskey instead of being scared of drowning in it after a sip. When everyone who mattered was still alive and still fun and still beautiful and so was I. When it was called 'drama' because people used to pretend to give a shit when you had it. No, you can't stop me. No one can. I'm out of here. I'm going back and I'm going to do it all again and harder and when I'm done I'm going to go back and find all the future monsters and all the assholes and steal them as babies and I'm going to take them to the forest and tear them limb from limb then shove their screaming faces into the mud and the shit they made of our future."|
She puffs on the cigarette with trembling hands and at that moment realizes she's been crying now the whole time she's been talking.
Tonight, well last night technically now, marked one year since David Bowie died. We were both at a bar drinking alone and each of us reading a book. Her something about a ghost who discovered they weren't a ghost and the memories of their death was a lover's whose name now they had to rediscover. Me I was reading about a struggling stage magician who had to work as a mortician and used the dead bodies as props for his sleight-of-hand. Pulling knotted swaths of colored fabric from the throat of a corpse, plucking coins from behind the ears connected to caved in skulls, sawing a cadaver in half only to miraculously reassemble them with a yank of a blanket. Then the bar started playing Gene Genie and we caught each other singing along.
I gave her a toast and she picked up her book and scooched down the bar to sit by me. We got to talking about Bowie, about the books we were reading, and all that idle getting to know you shit. The bar was closing and we were both drunk enough to know where this was going. Told her I had a joint if she had a place to smoke it. She did. Walking distance. We picked up a bottle of gas station wine on the way and went back to her place. We smoked the joint. We drank the wine. The TV was on Adult Swim but neither of us were really watching it. The conversation drifted into that awkward silence when the words have done all they can for the bodies that produce them. Had that magnetic anxiety drawing me to a kiss I was having trouble knowing was there or not so she took the first step. She pounced, straddled, and kissed me like I was someone back from the grave after being given up for dead. Clothes yanked, zippers tugged, hands phantoms drifting across the geography of our needs. She pulls away. She gives me my marching orders to the bedroom and I'm told to wait there while she freshens up in the bathroom.
I sit on the edge of the bed, stripped down to my boxers, drunk excited, stoned self-conscious, distracting myself by rehearsing what excuse I'll use to call out sick tomorrow.
She emerges out of the bathroom with nothing on but scars and tattoos. I notice that she's got her pubic hair shaved into a lightning bolt that she's dyed blue in tribute to Mssr. Stardust. I'm about to say something stupid/cute about it when she starts up with the whole time-travel routine.
"It's too late, Rick...," she says sniffling and jabbing the cigarette into a porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary with its head cracked off.
"Jack," I correct wishing my cigarettes weren't in my pants back in the other room.
"It's too late for him too," she snorts wiping snot off with her forearm,
"I'm gonna hop on my time-machine, make a better yesterday and undo all tomorrow's pity-parties."
"Nice," I say encouraged that she's stopped crying at least, "but I don't exactly see a TARDIS lying around anywhere in the vicinity."
"Oh I have something much better than that," she says stepping over to the edge of the bed where I'm sitting and pushes so the top half of me is laying down.
"Yeah... what's that?"
"You," she whispers crawling then mounting herself to hover that lightning bolt inches above my gasp before plunging it down across a thousand lifetimes across the reach of my kiss.