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genie in the bottle

There's broken glass on the kitchen floor. From where I dropped a glass, not in drunkeness but arthritis. I still haven't picked it up yet even though on this morning's journeyings through the kitchen I could hear the tiny pieces crunching. There's something almost pleasing about broken glass, its jaggedness.

Yesterday I was feeling very upset over being in lots of pain and having lost my phone, so Mr. Z offered to console me by taking me out for drinks. Of course by the time he got around to actually ringing me it was 9pm and by that time I was utterly drunk, having taken the situation into my own hands some time previous. [For waiting for him to call and take me out meant missing out on hours of valuable potential drinking time].

So I ransacked the cupboards and the fridge [I still have a lot of South African wine from Asda left but I was in a foul mood and it didn't deserve to be taken out on nice wine] and came away happily with half a bottle of rum and some juice.

Usually I have no capacity for alcohol at all - two glasses of wine will send me to sleep- but yesterday I drank with the coolness of a strategist, the dedication of a military campaignmaster. The battlefield was my body, the battleground of joints within my body. I wanted to drink until the stiffness inside me didn't belong to me anymore, until my pain turned from sharp ache into something fluid as rum. I wanted to drink until all my thoughts were wiped out, until I collapsed and dreamt of nothing at all.

I nursed my drinks, pacing myself, pouring diluted spirits down my throat and paced the evening like a tightrope and contemplated the colour of my mood [a dark indigo blue, with slashes of cobalt and a velvet-black weave].

I watched a drama about a baby on telly, and chatted to people on the internets and contemplated how it was probably a good thing that I had lost my phone with people's numbers in lest I use it to ring up Z and lash out at him for not sensing the depth of my sadness and frustration and need. For not being there in the moments when I needed another human body, to unleash a bright fierce, half-savage passion against.

By half eight I was faced with the perversity of being out of juice but not consciousness - I tried downing rum neat but it gave me heartburn and made me queasy, so I cut up some apples and started dipping them instead. Around 9 Z rang, and by 10 he appeared bearing smiles and chocolates and drink reinforecements and I was seized in one of those sudden shifts of feeling- from utter gloom to giggly laughter- as though a coin somewhere inside me had been flipped. I was pleased to see him. The savage passion turned playful mewling kitten. We chatted a little, and laughed, and curled up on the couch [a neat jigsaw of limbs- the curvature of cheek meeting the curvature of breastbone- negotiating for space with the cushions]. We watched Hero [well he did, I fell asleep when everyone was leaping around dressed in red and woke up when people in white were dancing across a desert with swords]. It was a beautiful film, lushly shot, I want to watch it again, properly.

And then later still, another jigsaw of us in bed side by side. His hand on my hand, his stomach against my back. Quiet. Just the sounds of our breathing and the breath of moonlight through the window. A flash of an edge of something inside me- sharp and brilliant as glass- and the earlier indigo blue of me inside, drawn out, diluted. More subtle now. The colours of twilight woven with the echoes of moon on sea and snow. A tapestry of threads. Brittle sadness. Tenderness. Affection. Sea dreams. A promise of oblivion. A measure of peace.

Comments

( 5 comments — Leave a comment )
grazia
Apr. 22nd, 2005 04:43 pm (UTC)
gorgeous. your prose is like poetry.

i'm glad to hear you're feeling better today.

hugs,
e
rainsinger
Apr. 22nd, 2005 06:37 pm (UTC)
thank you :)
I felt all mellow and inspired.
it's funny how having to do dull paperwork spurs me into artistic prose instead ;)
dubaiyan
Apr. 22nd, 2005 10:47 pm (UTC)
Hero!!
I adored

Strategic alcohol love!

Icon!! *is pleased*
mindslant
Apr. 25th, 2005 12:41 pm (UTC)
Only you
I was in a foul mood and it didn't deserve to be taken out on nice wine], how British. You might be amazed but where I live, the number of people that relate to what you wrote is very slim. Not the drinking part, oh they get that. Subtle, defined, over bearing emotion. Very little is subtle here and definition is never looked for. That just leaves over bearing, and that they are.
rainsinger
Apr. 27th, 2005 02:10 pm (UTC)
Re: Only you
Thank you for the nice words:)
I get a pleased glow to know that you read and picked up what I was trying to get across :)
( 5 comments — Leave a comment )

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rainsinger
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