A Laugh or Two
Mark Coleman
It wasn't really a joyful countenance that she put on. Something more akin to the legerdemain shine of a No mask. The tilt-a-whirl of a would-be smile. Pouring out a few fingers of brandy into the snifter and lighting a Slim, glanced around the room as if expecting a guest to materialize out of the wall or pour djinn-wise out of the vase. Silver platter on table set with carnival oddity hors d'oeuvres. Dragging and inhaling deep then out the nostrils or through the barely parted, carefully painted, glossy lips.
Shadows in the corners beckoning a yesterday several years removed. The lamp with the crimson shade going burgundy there. A splash of cologne and a swish of rouge. Out the window. Beating the rug. "Hello's" enunciated unnaturally. Street urchin dish pitch. Organ grinder gramophone. Monkey up, and off with the hat. Mustard on a lip. Rip in a slip. Spit in an eye. Toasted. Baked Alaska divvied up.
Lushed out, and losing your footing. Trucks speeding by somewhere. Out there. Traffic lights winking out of the ice. Mufflered poodle walkers tsk-tsking your prostate state. Librarians stamping insert cards with a coquettish flash above the bifocal. Imagining them with their hair down, and their breasts bared. Breath going winter. Eyes on a decked out department store window. Faux Christmas tree encircled by wrapped UPS boxes full of stones.
A creaking slipshod bridge over a frozen lake. Hands in the pockets of an old army coat. Feet in a worn down pair of brogues. Sitting in an empty park gazebo at midnight across from a closed pizzeria watching a hook-and-ladder slide into the firehouse. A squad car full of grimaces and blanch with the streetlights flickering on the light bar. Leaning back on the bench with a struck match to a butt, and a quick nip from the whiskey pint.
Streetwalkers that are just an ass and a pair of legs beneath a lowered sedan window. The synchronization of the bars closing, and the crack dealers appearing on every corner. The arcade at the back with the floors that want to peel the soles off your shoes. Peep show on a lifted roll of quarters. Behind the glass the tongue curling back onto the tip of the nose. The playful pout as the shutter goes down. The dance floor gyrations. Heady beer choppy. Unfit for sailing. Over the glass rim.
Ebony stripper giving you the okay to slide a few fingers down her G-string. A pack of smokes, and a hotel room looking down on chess players and a taco stand. A wash basin full of ice and bottles of import. Bottomless mimosas in the morning and shots of tequila at night. Greasy spoons and court dates. Sink clogged with vomit in a downtown dive. A friendly chat at the urinal. A line of coke in the stall. "Salud's" and "Manana's." Braving the cold for a bit of mead, and a laugh or two.
