The Cerebral Catalyst

The bell tolls midnight. Her face, delicious. When she tilts her head to sip from the salt-ringed glass I want to end it right there, to freeze her in that position and devour her. But I am able to contain my passion. I reach across the bar for her empty glass and allow my arm to rub against her polished copper flesh. It melts at my touch, and she pours herself onto me. Words flow from her fingertips. My arm glides over her shoulder and around her neck and pulls her closer as I bring the empty glass to my mouth. Our cheeks nearly touching, I lick the remaining salt from the rim of the cool glass, then stare at her violently. She is shattered, pierced, obliterated, and I'm watching from a mountaintop, one snowflake unmelted in the hollow of my cheek. I want to draw her to me and press her lower back into my hip harder and harder, squeezing her organs against my frame until the life seeps out, but I hold myself back and am satisfied to lead her towards the door, away from the cloud of perfume and sinuous banter. I keep my hand pressed gently against the deep of her back, fingers predicting the swell of her ass. The vodka spreads pins and needles. Her face, statuesque. Thin lips sliced beneath a straight nose, dagger point chin. My numbness is a void I must fill. The night air entrenches itself into the sluices of my brain. The pleasant squeeze in the sides of my head, my mind shedding the tiny burs and imperfections. The blade at my side grows hot with anticipation as I lead her down the street. The park is a shadow, haunted by dying elms.

Her

Midnight already. I like being close to him. His body is hard. He walks straight despite the alcohol. When I entered the bar, I saw him standing there. The gentlemen wore blazers and oxfords. The ladies wore sweater dresses and strapless bras. His flat cap and tweed jacket were noble in their resistance. I looked down at my plain dress and back at him. I felt sexy despite my homeliness. He caught my eye and winked. Something slipped out, lust or violence or loneliness. It matched what I held inside me. I walked in a different direction like the ladies with the clicking heels do, the coquettes. It makes the gentlemen think they are achieving something. In the corner of my eye I watched him watching me watching him. The wheels were in motion. I stood in a dark part of the bar, alone, facing away from him. His shadow swallowed mine. A husky whisper in my ear. I let him lead me to his spot at the bar so he could lean like a sailor while I acted sexy. Two more drinks and he claimed me with his arm, drew me outside. Now I let him hold me like an invalid. Slowly we stroll, leaving behind the drinks and the pretty ladies and their subtle games. His lust is fragrant as we approach the park. Bells. The first quarter of the first hour of the new day. There are no lights. He will draw me near a bush or against an elm. In the pulsating dark he will peel off my dress. I will kiss him, and he will close his eyes. I will remove the stiletto from my garter while he is intoxicated with my venom. When he feels the prick, he will mistake it for pleasure, just for a moment. As I draw the blood from between his shoulder blades, suck the breath from his face, and clench his diaphragm with my legs, he will realize, and then it will be over, and he will have wasted his last kiss struggling.

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D. Richard Scannell writes and illustrates For the Hermits. He lives in New York.

posted 12.03.07.

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