Rochester, New York
November, 2003
Molly leans leans over the bar at the Penfield Tavern and signals the bartender with a noisy wave of a ten dollar bill, nearly knocking over her half-filled and slowly warming Guinness into the lap of the porcine man sitting next to her. He exhales plumes of blue smoke and continues his conversation with a bouncy blonde woman, her mind vacant from too many Margaritas.
“Like I was saying,” he says flashing an odious grimace at Molly. “The goddamn winters here are hell, really, hell.” The woman nods like one of those bobble-head dogs. He inches closer, elbowing Molly out of the way when she is at last rescued by a bartender.
“What can I get you,” he asks. She looks into his deep, green eyes and quite out of habit takes his hand while ordering.
“I need another stout,” she demands in a surly voice. “And I need it now.”
He hovers and lets her stroke his hand; she absently runs her fingers across the large onyx and ruby ring on his left hand. It feels comforting as a comforting warmth runs from his body into hers. A beer appears in a large crystal chalice. It bubbles and shoots fireworks and flames across the bar. The man sitting next to her and his vegetating companion simultaneously breath in a startled, “what the hell…” but Molly continues to stare into the bartender’s eyes and run her fingers over his ring. It glows and expands as it heats up to a fiery red, singeing the skin on her fingers, but still she holds on. Inside the vessel of dark stout a drama emerges—the beer clears to crystal and a parade of figures appears, all connected by festoons of pulsating threads. She reads the souls of the trapped figures and a sudden aura of pain flashes through her; a blade of fire shoots through her heart and into her belly.
“Are you all right?” the bartender asks.
Molly leaps from her stool, spilling the entire gallon contents of the beer chalice into the lap of the hapless man next to her. The blonde woman screams with laughter and points with childish glee at the figure of Molly racing into the ladies room, her hand firmly cupped over her mouth in a vain attempt to stem the rising tide of vomit. It leaks through her fingers as she dashes into the nearest stall and expels quarts of undigested stout into a toilet already clogged with tissues. It feels good.
Ignoring the complaints of the other occupants, Molly cleans herself up as best she can with double vision. She pushes her way through the crowd to a public phone where she leaves yet another message on Peter’s answering machine. She hangs up with a choice selection of obscenities and stumbles out into the Rochester autumn. A gray, overcast sky with the consistency of month-old refried beans clings to her like peasant kids on a Tijuana holiday.
She drives mostly on the wrong side of the road to Peter’s apartment, lets herself in with the key she never returned, and throws herself on his empty bed. Instantly she falls into a dreamless sleep.
Peter leaves his lover’s apartment at three in the morning. He parks next to Molly’s car, notices that she left the lights on, but does nothing about it. Instead he just sighs as if he were doomed to find her there. He trudges up the pathway to the door, expecting it to be unlocked and of course, it is. He sighs again as he locks the door behind him. He finds the bathroom in the dark and takes care of some needed business, listening to Molly’s labored breathing in the next room. He undresses and slides between silk sheets. Molly stirs, rolls over face down and throws her arm over Peter. He moves it gently aside, sneaks out of the bedroom and stretches out on the couch
A tense voice nudges him awake and an insistent grip rolls him over knocking him off his precarious perch on the couch to the floor. He stretches his eyes into a gray gloom; the room is wet with a sticky fog and there hovering over him, naked and holding a lighted, black candle is Molly. Her face has the pallor of death; rivulets of colorless blood trickle from the corners of her mouth.
Peter squints into the flickering flame, leaps to his feet and takes Molly by the shoulders. He says, “You broke up with me, remember?”
“I tried to call you,” she says in a lifeless voice. “You weren’t home.”
“I was out. What are you doing here Molly?”
“I needed to… Peter, this is killing me.”
He frowns and says, “No it isn’t. Where did all this fog come from.” He gently pushes Molly aside and throws open a window. The mist seeps slowly out like an unruly puppy.
Molly smiles. “I don’t know. Unusual weather for indoors. Please make love to me.”
He tries to connect her otherwise disconnected thoughts but gives up. “Molly, you need to lighten up.” he says.
Peter takes her by the hand and leads her to the bathroom and into the shower; Molly holds her candle like a pacifier. The flame disappears in the hot waves of steam; her hand is coated and burned with black wax. He chucks the candle into the sink, washes her down and carefully dries her off. She lets him lead her back to bed where she falls asleep, cuddling a pillow like a teddy bear.
“I have to go out for a while,” he whispers and kisses her gently on the cheek. “I’ll be right back.” As he leaves, the room slowly fills with a slick, viscous fog.
Copyright © 2010 Donald W. Bacon
revised 09-May-2010
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