Scriptor Press - The ElectroLounge

“Is this what isn’t going to happen?”
“There’s more.”
“What about the rest of us?”
Pause. “Do you think I would have taken you away from your lives if they’d been
happy?”
Rebecca looks at me. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Is this all, um, going OK?”
“Do you want to read everything I just wrote?”
She slides astride me. “No, Ray. Just tell me. You know I like everything you write.”
We manifest. Another coffee joint. Scattered tables & old couches. Nighttime. Front
wall of place is all window, about 40 feet wide.
She surely knows how to manifest. Wearing the usual black motorcycle & tight
jeans, add a well-filled tye-die shirt low-cut in front. Her hair shoulder-length mahogany
brown. Eyes blue. Eyes bright, a child’s. Eyes, wise, my mate, my muse.
“You should talk about how pretty you are sometimes,” she complains, smiling,
making a playful swipe for my pen.
“Tell me. I’ll write.”
“Exactly what I say? Promise?”
I nod. She grasps my non-writing hand & presses it to her breast & finds my mouth
with hers & I find her telling me how beautiful I am from within me.
A full mug of beer tips off the bar at Luna T’s Cafe & tumbles to the floor, crash!
Voices. Laughter. Mr. Bob the barman & a broom & pail.
When the fuss has been swept, mopped, all well again, Mr. Bob returns to behind
the counter & meets a sudden barrage of drink orders with usual calm.
“Jimmy?” he queries the pensive Jim Reality III who sits quietly at the bar with his
empty drink.
Jim’s lost in a peaceful contemplation brought on by a day spent with guitar & fine
marijuana in front of his hut down at the Concord Reservoir. Mr. Bob refills his drink
without waiting for an answer probably not due for awhile. In grabbing the bar’s bottle of
Beefeater Gin, he looks up to the bar TV & sees a darkhaired woman dressed in some kind
of hunter’s costume, tustling with a large beast.
“Check out the tickets on that one,” cracks one drinker.
“Two please!” several sodden wits bellow simultaneously.
Mr. Bob uses the TV remote control to return to Acid TV.
The drinkers, sans Jim, let out a collective groan.
Mr. Bob heeds not a single drinker’s plea for a full 30 minutes.
The wife & I are now sitting on the same side of our table, tho I’ve insisted on
separate seats.
“You’re a shameless little wench,” I told her ear with a lick. She responds with a
shameless little wench’s gesture that leads me to whisk us out of the scene far less hot than we
are.
A dream passes & we are in a large tub filled with soapy water, facing each other, I
use a large soft yellow sponge to soap her breasts, they juggle up & down, we laugh,
something easy here, something flowing current, we laugh & our legs are tangled warmly
together, & our hands hold one another tightly, her hair is loosely held in a bunch atop her
17
The Cenacle / 54 / April 2005