2am and I heard the front door slam. She stumbled in and tossed her keys on the counter, lit a cigarette, and propped her long leg up on the chair to unzip her knee-high boots. I was sitting in the corner sipping whiskey and reading Faulkner. The ice in the glass made a sound as I raised it to my lips. It stunned her and she looked over. “What’s the secret to this fucking life?” I asked her as I blew smoke rings in the dark. She rolled her eyes and with her hair all tangled and an ornery smile, shimmied her silk panties down from under her short black dress and flung them at me. They smelt like the answer to it all. I fired up my last cigar and sipped whiskey in the dark to a Chet Baker record I had lightly playing in the background. With her bare feet on the wood floor and a drunken sway, she slowly made her way towards me as she raised her middle finger and told me to “fuck off.” Faulkner once asked: “Who gathers the withered rose?” Indeed, that is the question. She straddled me in a clumsily sort of cute way and then took the cigar out of my mouth and dropped it in my whiskey. She took one last drag of her cigarette before dropping that one in too. The street lights lit her face. I heard sirens in the distance. I grabbed her ass tightly and looked into her mascara-smeared eyes. Faulkner made a thud on the floor as Chet Baker played on till dawn.
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Beautiful Erik! Faulkner with Chet Baker: A Damn Combination
Loved it!!!