Part 1
I lost the entire manuscript when I assassinated my laptop with sauvignon blanc as I rubbed the lower back of a woman who dozed drunk on my bed, sweating. She was crazed, somewhere between screaming and lying about the orgasm.
Bree was a miracle to me, because the poet in me was thought of as dead and her whimpering and sweet voice had me claw myself from the grave.
Day after day she told herself how much better than me she could do. They say Jesus walked on water, but I didn't see it, so I doubt it.
In the dark she kissed me and it tasted of cigarettes and alcohol and her tongue had the last flavours of white chocolate she'd had for breakfast. She made sure I tasted her piercing, too. She smelled of Imari perfume.
As we kissed, I stroked her hair behind her ear, and gently held her face in my hands, like she was the cup of life to me.
" Rub me, La Chito, " she said quietly, and I'd end up trapped with her nakedness, massaging her legs and feet, and if I tried to move she'd put her legs upon me, so I couldn't leave her.
Oh, we sometimes loved each other when we were all messed up.
We should have been cosmic and universal and she was worried about her body instead of her soul, one worth saving. She was beautiful, no matter her shape or the shape she was in.
She had been upset on a fine day and was going back and forth from the room and had her thoughts strewn about like her clothing and I wanted to take her home. I wanted to hold her so tight we would become more than two people rolled into one.
We were all messed up, but I remember she said she loved me, and in a fit of sherry induced drunkness I kicked a cinder block, growling at her, " Yeah... I love you, too. "
I kissed her feet, her legs, the inside of her thighs, and I should've been ashamed of myself, but I couldn't stop.
She was all peach iced tea and fortified wine and smelled of cigarette smoke to add depth to an otherwise untouchable woman.
She laid back in my arms and rested her head against my chest.
I kissed her head, played with the ring sitting loosely on her finger, and knew I could give her one better than that. It all depended when.
I told her, " No matter what happens, I'll support you. My door will be open, but not if we live like this. I want to live with you, not die. That was the deal, sweetheart. I'll clean up for you. I'll cook for you. I'll run you showers when you're feeling bad. I wasn't that drunk. I remember asking you what you’re doing for the next twenty years. I do love you. "
She untangled herself from me, removed her loose fitting dress and laid facedown, and murmured in her sweet voice, " Rub my back. "
Our drinking was suicidal. She was hurting and it hurt me, too. That wasn't the deal. Her crying made me too soft and pliable.
We can never tell unwell people they're unwell. Sympathy not pity binds the wounds. The state of our room is the state of our mind.
I didn't mean to upset her, I just didn't want to give her another drink and kill her, not on her birthday.
When I got home she was gone.
The first time I met her she was late and sat down to the left of me. I couldn't stop looking at her, because to me she was a source of inspiration.
I miss her, her in her sun hat and transparent black skirt. Her nails, her jewellery, each beautiful blemish to make her who she is.
Her. Stepping from the ocean and walking up to front me.
Her. Every freckle, crease, and scar is worth exploring.
Her. A garden of repressed emotion and twisted like vines.
Now, I am here, sober today, and I don't know where she is, and I didn't need her. Ever. But I wanted her.
Tomorrow, I will visit the grave of one of the most legendary drunks I've ever known. I'll pay my respects and I'll sit there and think of love and life and wonder who may be next in my bed. I've never let a woman in my bed whom I didn't love.
Oh, we drunks love each other when we're all messed up.
Part 2
Bob Miranda looked through the door and smirked.
He gazed at the mess, piles of her clothes, the remaining scent of mango incense hanging in, and he said, spreading his palms outward, " This... This is the beginning of every bad love story ever written. "
It was hard not to laugh, because I felt he was right.
" I feel for you, my guy, " he continued. " You realise you can change the outcome, don't you? "
" Oh, I know, " agreeing with him.
" Do you know much about her? "
" She grew up in Nana Glen and loves horses. She likes assorted chocolates and peach iced tea. I don't want to assume, but I figure she ran away from home young for an older guy. Unhappy teenagers do that. I was one myself. "
" You may be right. "
" I may be crazy. "
" But you might just be the lunatic she's looking for. "
" I didn't know you liked Billy Joel. "
" Yeah, dude. He's a master of the craft. Where is she now? "
She was somewhere uptown getting her nails done, because some other guy she knew was careless and broke one.
Sometimes, broken things contain a beauty worth fixing, and broken people aren't always broken. They want someone to notice. That's all.
" Do you think I'm childish? " I asked him.
" We're all a bit childish, " he said. " I isolate on occasion. That's considered childish to some people. I wouldn't say you're childish. I'd say you've been alone a very long time and you have forgotten what it is to share your life with a woman. You've got the skills, but this...? This shit is fucked up, brother man, "
I had to chuckle, because I love it when people are right.
Bob left me to it, plodding down the stairs.
" You can change the outcome, " he said.
Part 3
She has broken me. All I want to do is these good things.
This morning I woke up at dawn and washed our clothes while she slept. I don't have access to the washing machine, so I wash clothes by hand.
She'll leave me again, I think, but I don't overthink it, because she returned, didn't she?
She said, " You piss me off and you're clingy, " but I chuckled at her, because she's there telling me, so it means somewhere deep down she loves me. She wears my shirts and not because she has to. She wears my shirts because deep down she loves me. I've even told people when they have asked me about her, " I'm the love of her life. She just doesn't know it yet. "
She gets demanding and says, playfully, " You're supposed to love me, rub my feet, and care for me. "
She's right. I love it when she's right.
She wants us to rent a house elsewhere. I called her my wife, because people will talk, and she didn't lose her temper. We even had the hypothetical talk of having children and that's all her choice and not in our condition we can't, but we agreed it'd be good to have a boy, because all we have are daughters, and she said, " You could help me raise him do those many things you do. "
Today, I washed our clothes and gathered food. She's contented, fed and warm, clothed and sheltered. It's the fundamentals of it and when she gets angry I can't take her seriously, because she's pretty to me when she's angry, and she knows it.
Part 4
And then suddenly it was over.
In love everything is a two way street and some say all is fair in love and war.
We were all messed up and drunk and had a fight and I was bleeding and taken to hospital. From there I ran away and the Police were looking for me. I tried to carjack some kid at a drive-thru and finally I was cornered near a park and arrested.
When I got home at 6am she was naked in my bed and she sat up, coughed, and got up. While she was out of the room I saw cum dribble on the sheet. I touched it and sniffed it, just to make sure. That dirty bitch! She fucked my neighbour while I was in custody!
This was the last time she was going to break my heart and later in the morning the Police removed her from my home. I didn't want to see her, but she walked past me.
When I was alone I thought of what Bob Miranda said, " Every bad love story ever written. You can change the outcome. "
Not this time. She stole my laptop and my clothes.
A week later I took one of her friends home and she stayed for the night. I told her all about Bree.
Since then I've seen Bree around and I've been warned not to pity her. On Good Friday she was beaten up by people she thought were friends.
She has convinced herself it's all my fault.
I've since made up with my neighbour, but it's for my own sake, so I don't end up in prison.
The Police called and said she was missing. It's not a crime to go missing, but I know she's drowning her sorrows somewhere. Me? I've been sober since she was made to leave.
I haven't slept in my bed since and I threw out the linen. People have told me to surface spray the mattress, deodorise it, then disinfect it. It'll save me from buying a new bed. The laptop and clothes are replaceable, but people are not.
One afternoon I was sitting at the neighbourhood centre and a quiet voice woke me from my daydream of rainbows and pots of gold and flying horses.
The voice belonged to Angie, a younger woman with a dark complexion, and nervous nature. She wanted to go for coffee.
I'd met her before.
We went for coffee and then we went to a miniature village and she'd never been there. We talked for hours about all those bastards who have hurt us. Afterward, we went to the movies, and I walked her to a supermarket and we parted ways, but not before she hugged me.
I looked into her eyes. She was gentle and everything about her was a first for me.
She gently held me, asking, " Bree who? "
My jaw and throat hurt, because I wanted to cry and keep her, but Bree was still too much of a fresh wound. I only want to be the love of someone's life, but it's hard to do when I don't know who or where I am anymore.
Now, they're both gone, Angie with someone else, and Lee Moses sings Bad Girl, a soul track from long ago, and I'm alone, sober, sitting with my shit feelings, holding myself together, holding myself accountable for everything.
I miss them, for better or worse, because I'm all messed up.
One time, I was cold in the night and Bree put her arm and leg over me and I wasn't cold anymore and everything between us was quietly redeemed.
And that's all, xxox.
Bio:
L Christopher Hennessy lives in Coffs Harbour NSW, Australia, He is the author of poetry, short stories, and novels, and has been published since the 1990s. his writing covers many genres.