Oh my mind is clouded and my eyes are dim. To say I imbibed would be both an under- and overstatement. Under because I scarcely remember it so my attestation is an afterthought, a palimpsest, to what was, and over- because I can scarcely think of anything. The evidence is in massed on the hill, in a defensive formation, entrenched, looking down their artillery barrels at me. Their fortifications are so dense and impregnable that it matters not what's on the other side; I will not see it.
I crossed through the demilitarized zone late saturday evening for a jaunt through the past. All those poetic short stories remind you that the enemy looks just like you (or your brother), so I figured why wait 'til I'm dead to find that out. I rightly assumed that my disguise would be perfect because it's no disguise at all. My face hid my identity flawlessly, and my brothers too.
The target, preordained from the beginning, was the Kingdom, or more specifically, Angela. She is motherly, with an aww shucks grin and bangs you can set your watch by. She seemed to remember me from the brief cessation of hostilities that had come to a bloody close just hours before with a disturbing case of fratricide. She probably knew I didn't belong, but I knew the same about her so she had no barrel over my head that I didn't have over hers, but to remind her of that fact I made sure to order the Balvenie 12 year old Double Barrel (with a splash of water). She got the message and I got the Scotch.
The night progressed smoothly; the culture shock was less than expected. This was however a distinctly double edged sword. I was counting on my exoticism as currency to buy me into conversations. From there the rest would be history. But I barely stood out at all and needed to affect an accent to get noticed (li-tra-ture, say it with me).
After several failed attempts at conversation with strangers, all rebuffed, I returned to the bar and ordered another Balvenie. Angela smiled, and I beckoned her in. Close enough to see in the darkness that her eyes were in fact blue.
"Four times I've been rejected tonight." She smiled. "I'm usually marginally more successful than that."
She poured the Scotch and leaned in closer. I could smell her sweat. In a voice as devoid of sing-song expression as one can bring to it she said, "How should we like it if the stars were to burn with a passion for us that we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me."
I laughed. Who does that? She pulled away to return the bottle to it's resting place. I could only smell the Scotch. She shrugged her shoulders. "Persistence is key."
I slipped back across the border not long before dawn, avoiding checkpoint and sentry and nursed myself to sleep.
-Robert de Saint-Loup
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