Vinegar Red

"There's gotta be a better way than this," he told himself, as
though the answer was hiding somewhere, hiding way out of view in a
place his short stubby fingers couldn't reach. Couldn't get to anymore.
"There's got to be," he thought, "Or what's the fucking point? . . .
Did I say that out loud," he shook, losing balance again, swaying in
the back, concentrating on the task of getting home, trying hard to
focus, trying hard not to spin-out as the driver checked him through
the rear-view mirror again, "Don't you fucking throw up in my
cab!"

"There's got to be a better way than this," he told himself, "There has
to be." Sat slumped in the back speeding home, slurring, eyes rolling,
rummaging around in his coat lining for that lost 1/8th of hope he
could've sworn he'd had before leaving Annie's place. Rummaging around
for that lost little block to knock him out for the night. End it. Wake
up again tomorrow. Fresh start. "There's gotta be a better way than
this," he told himself, "There has to be."

Earlier he was happy. The two of them wrapped in warm cotton grins as
they slowly sank into her sofa moving ever closer, ever nearer with
each smile, each nervous laugh, each tacit touch like neon. Each look,
each stare a second longer but then, as always, his confidence edged
away. Backing off at the fear of failure. With each drink he tried to
snare it, tempt it back but soon the brain stopped firing, quit taking
advice from the heart and before he knew it he was slurring again. With
each sip slowly sliding; losing heat, slipping down the temperature
gauge. Once hot to her now lukewarm. The soft pad of his fingers
becoming wires as hands demanded touch, eventually moving in on her
with the dough-like desperation of a game show contestant - I wanna
take the money . . C'mon, let me see the money now!

"I'm telling you, don't you fucking throw up in my cab," the mousetrap
response from behind the wheel snapping his eyes back open as he
slumped in the back, his body blown around as if newspaper, his eyelids
soon slipping again as he rummaged around his coat lining for that lost
1/8th of hope he could've sworn he'd had before leaving Annie's place.
Hoping to roll it when he got back. To take away the edge now he was
locked in a cab, alone and speeding home before pouring another
nightcap, one more for the road then porn &;amp; wanking. Music.
Sleep. Waking hours later to squint through red Merlot eyes, like
scratches across his face wrapping themselves around the headache he
knew he'd have.
He rummaged through his coat lining, "There's gotta be a better way
than this . . There has to be," he slurred, tearing himself up over
another missed opportunity with her as the driver checked him again
through the rear view mirror, "I'm warning you, don't you fucking throw
up in my cab!"

From her place behind the curtain she watched the hire light shrink to
nothing, standing just out of view as the cab poured him home and she
took the last hit from the third in their three bottle deal. Ruby,
Cabernet, three for a tenner; stood watching the tail-lights fade,
swallowing the last angry gulps of Zinfandel.
Earlier she was happy. Caught up in the rush as the two of them slowly
sank into her sofa moving ever closer, ever nearer with each smile,
each nervous laugh, each tacit touch like neon. When they talked.
Discussed things. When he was interested. Wanted to know what she
thought. What she was thinking and the conversation flowed, topics
taking off like flights. When she was enjoying herself, feeling alive
as the clock spun, the future still unwrapped as their guarded,
tailored movements gave way to animation. Warm eyes, embers glowing,
gestures following the rhythm of another first date. Another in their
three bottle deal. Merlot, Beaujolais, something red and he felt good,
he felt confident as she smiled, grinning with a wishing to fuck you
humour at his lame wooden jokes. When he didn't care about slipping out
of the act, not worrying about being cool anymore as he relaxed,
sinking into the sofa to face her, his boots kicked off, his posture
softening, his body aching to twist and turn in her direction. Absorbed
in nothing but her as he necked the last of another glass in their
three bottle deal. Another, then another as they talked, then talk
became discussion having missed all her signals, unable to realise her
signs as with each glass his confidence slowly slipped into a slur.
With each drink he tried to snare it, tempt it back until the once soft
pad of his fingers became wires as hands demanded touch. Pawing at her
like a fat cat.
She called him a cab.

She stood back behind the curtain, just out of view as the cab poured
away, falling back into the sofa soon after he'd gone and swallowing
the last of the glass in her three bottle deal, she clicked on the TV,
slowly flipping through the channels one by one.