Perfect Evening

At The End Of The Perfect Evening

'How's that?' she murmured.
'Good,' I lied. Too much teeth.
As she went back to her chores I leant over my end of the couch to
pick up a small mirror from the coffee table. Simon chose the table,
apparently my sense of style was no longer chic. Just a quick snort to
help my concentration. Timing is everything.
'Mmmmm,' she nodded, staring up at me as I took a line.
The city lights cast flickering blue shadows through the apartment
windows, making her appear suddenly old, amplifying her desperateness,
her eagerness to please. For a brief second we looked inside each other
and she ducked her head and, after a second, began to bob once more.
Did we recognise ourselves mirrored in each other's eyes for a minute
there, my dear?
I stretched back, trying to enjoy the evening as it worked over me,
and turned up the volume on the stereo, letting the laid-back bass pave
the way for Knopfler's guitar solo. I moved gently to the rhythm of the
music, sliding through the coke high, and cupped the back of her head,
running my fingers through her dry, platinum-blonde hair, imagining it
cut short, stubbled, shaved. She moaned softly and it turned me off a
little. I'm sure she was putting it on.
Distracted, I poured myself another champagne, neglecting her glass.
Oh, Christ, it's room temperature. How long had we been here? I glanced
at the stove clock. Shit! Simon would be home from the club soon, and
there was no way I'd be ready in time. He still had a lot to learn
about living with me.
'Are you close?' she said around me.
'Oh yeah, sure, real close darling, real close&;#8230;'
I tried not to look at her hard face, the lines creasing through the
powder plastered onto her skin, like riverbeds running greasy with
sweat. I was never going to make it in time at this rate. My eyes
drifted to my paintings on the wall, the naked forms, curved, lean,
letting the alcohol and drugs massage the source of their creation from
my memory, the smooth, supple bodies, soft and yielding under slabs of
muscle.
'That's it, big boy,' she said, mistaking my skill for her own.
I heard the key turning in the lock on the door. I was close, almost
there, almost ready. She heard it to, but I pressed her head down,
trying to contain myself.
'Don't stop,' I urged her.
Simon stepped through the door and his face spoke years to me in that
instant, in that second, when he saw what I was doing in our home. The
confidence, the arrogance, drained from his eyes, his mouth falling
open ever so slightly to spill all the trust he had ever saved onto his
favourite Bokharan entry runner, his independence broken, the strength
of his youth over me waning in the half-light of the hallway like a
corrosive moon. His face said it all, damaged and now malleable to my
will.
I knew it and he, finally, realised it too.
I jerked convulsively, my back arching, and the whore between my legs
gagged.

The End