Living in wartime has proven quite exhilarating, and not the least for the cocktails. Since alcohol is being used to power un-man-ed assassination drones that are so popular in the border region of Afghanistan and Pakistan (affectionally referred to as AfPak by those in the know), a de facto prohibition has descended throughout this theater. The shortage of spirit, beginning to affect morale, spread through headquaters. All that remains is homeopathic alcohol. Difficult.
Another problem that comes with the nightly bombardment is that bars have become significantly darker. I was at a Speak Easy called Lady Jane Grey's. I was waiting for PI I know to show up. I got the sense he wasn't coming when this blonde with legs to the floor came up and sat down. Seeing that I had plenty left in the glass I said "hello." Now mind you it's dark in there. I could make out outlines, but no details, but I knew enough to know that I liked what I couldn't see. We small talked, getting closer. I had another drink. Her name was Jen.
After 45 mins, relieved that my PI wasn't showing up I stepped away to the bathroom. Alone in the lavatory I let my mind wander. That girl's voice. So raspy, perfectly feminine, truly feminine, but raspy. It sounded familiar, the feminine part. As if I had once known it.
After washing (and drying) my hands I returned to the bar. I spotted the girl at the end, where I had left her. A car with it's brights on made the turn opposite from the bar sweeping it's brights across the bar. Only from behind, and only for a moment, did I see the girl. My cousin. First cousin Jennifer. Right? I stopped.
The bar deflated into darkness again. I fled to the bathroom.
"It's her. It's sweet little cousin Jen, now in a push up bra? Is it her? Well, if it is, who cares? Did you intend to sleep with her? I mean you just met her. Or just met her in the dark, maybe you met before. You were at her communion. And that time she started choking at Grandma's birthday. I'd love her to choke on something else tonight... Wait! You can't say that, can't even think that. It's your cousin! You can't think that. Against the rules. But maybe she's not. There's a great chance she's not your cousin. Lots of girls named Jen. or Jennifer. I think my cousin used to go by Jenna actually. Probably not her. And would it matter if it was her? OF COURSE IT WOULD. Well, come on. The sex would be ... non-reproductive. She already mentioned that her IUD is named Philip, after some bald poet, and I'm well stocked with prophylactics and spermicides. My apartment is close, it's dark outside. We walk out of the dark bar, through the dark streets, into my dark apartment. We commit sin and she leaves. No light will shine. And really isn't most of the problem with incest on the reproductive side anyway? No reproduction, no problem. Two consenting adults here, and since neither are sure what or who we are consenting to, what matter?"
I wiped the sweat off my brow, ducked through the kitchen and out the back door. I dashed home.
Life during wartime.
-Robert de Saint-Loup
1 comment:
surreal
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