Photo by Johnathan Kaufman on Unsplash
*** The series finale for Biker’s Island is still sizzling on the grill. I’m taking my time with it because I know you guys like it juicy and well done and if I serve it medium rare someone will ask to speak to my manager. All the same, it’s Thursday and while we’re on the subject of juicy and well-done things, here’s a short teaser to whet your appetite for things to come. ***
Ah, this damn woman. She has the power to make men fall and acts as though she doesn’t know it. I do believe that she is not duplicitous, but does that make it better or worse? For her not to know and therefore go around collecting her jar of hearts with reckless abandon? One moment she’s looking at you with those doe eyes as though everything around has dissolved and only you remain. She makes you believe in her complete surrender, that you are truly at the helm, Captain of her ship. While in fact she never relinquishes control.
She is the siren leading you to surrender. And when she has you firmly across the waves, when you are bathed in content, she blows on the sails and goes a different way. Her mind is her own. She lends thoughts, insights, but she never gives herself away. You never know the exact moment when she decides to pull back. You only realize it in the aftermath, like when you wake up on a beach and find that the tide has ebbed.
It tortures me to think of him close to her, seeing what I don’t see, feeling what I don’t feel, being annoyed by what doesn’t annoy me. I imagine that if he’s been with her, I might smell her on him and it might gratify me. Or I might ask about her in passing, disguising my inquiry as a formality and he might tell me something of how she’s been. Has she carried her pregnancy well? How she must have glowed and rounded. I empty my mind of all thoughts that at any time may pop into my mind and begin to taunt me, discourage me. What are you doing? Why must you pine after her and diminish yourself in this way? What is this ugly display of weakness?
He’s already got two beers on the table and I contemplate ordering my favorite too. But I am wired and my throat craves the peppery tingle of an old whiskey so instead I order one on the rocks. He looks me in the eye and I feel an uneasiness, as though he can see how things have shifted and that I am still reeling, off-balance, edgy. I immediately fill the silence with talk of my choice of whiskey; how the ice cubes melt into it combining two temperatures that tease the tongue pleasantly; how the water opens up the whiskey so that it reveals itself with an outpouring of flavors. Then I sense that all that excessive talk is giving away my nervousness so I bring it to an abrupt stop.
The Biker’s Island finale will be up as soon as I have it.