SoMa Literary Review - Baissez Moi

Baissez Moi

By Wayne H. W. Wolfson

If night is a wild eyed woman, then dawn is her sister. Managing to offer up both hope and regret. Regret for returning yet again to the scene of the crime.

I had been at a brasserie. It took two drinks to not think of death. Not that there’s any particular reason I should, but when things seem right is when you get swatted down. Finding out too late that God read too much Shakespeare.

I liked the girl with the dark hair, so dark it looked painted on. Her sister, always looking mean and hot. Their roommate, the little Spanish girl with huge eyes.

The wine was sweet. It was the wine that led us to the dance. A ballet of kisses. I had an irrational fear that she had seen us. Jumping up, I leave a now uneven table.

I rush home. A trip too fast, another pain which I create. The door is unlocked and the place’s silence mismatches the hour. All the bottles are empty or broken. Specs of bourbon blood on the counter and whisky death waving from every silvered shard.

The best thing to do is pretend nothing has happened, bury any perceived sins under sleep.

Amy always smelled of cinnamon, better to be safe. The water’s warm. My skin aches and I’m not sure which is worse, the pain of want or expectation.

Cinnamon mixed with dried wildflowers.

With no clean towels I use a dress she had draped over the sink to dry. I lay down. Its no good, she won, I can’t relax.

Expectation.

Only after she has born her teeth can there be any peace. I have to go out and find her.

A series of circles, looping by bars with faded signs and hidden stories brings me to the park. Where I find her laying on the grass arguing with the Verlaine statue.

He had all the time in the world. He has stamina, so she turns to me. She yelled at me for spending all my change on a horn player while waiting for her the other day. Over and over.

Now I search for a story through closed eyes as she pours fifty dollar cognac on her thigh to treat a skin rash.

“Come on baby, let’s go home.”

We walk, slowly at first. Stopping now and then so she, with a malicious smile can pick the wildflowers which she then throws into the gutter. I wondered if that was it. She looked like she was remembering something, about to say something, but only scratched at her leg. We stop again. Waving a finger at me she hissed:

“There’s no more flowers to pick.”

And we were only halfway home.

Wolfson is a California based author seeking constant stimulation. That includes music. Click here to listen for yourself.