Flash Fiction: The Drunken Poet

“Give me some beautiful lines, make me feel good, make me feel special,” she said.

“Every night….I see you…I feel you,” he smiled at himself. “Sorry about the burrowed lines.”

“Burrowed?”  she asked. “From where you borrowed that one? I mean not where, from whom?”

“From a song by Celine Dion,” he replied.

“Oh…you are a fan of Celine Dion,” she said, he did not reply. “I want no borrowed words.”

“Let me think of some fresh lines,” he said even though he knew his mind was zonked.

She grabbed the notepad from the table and flipped the pages. He rested his head on the back of sofa and stared at the ceiling. She slouched on the table reading form the notepad. There was uneasy silence for a while.

“Who is this girl?” She was demanding.

He was happy that he did not have to think of fresh lines. “Remember, I’m a poet,” he said. “Girls happen to be my subjects sometimes.”

“You told me a story of a girl that you met in the coffee parlour. Is she the same one?”

The communication seemed to be going different than he had planned. He looked irritated. 

She watched his expressions unfold. “Okay! Enough for those people who are never related to us.” She tried to apologize.

“That’s what I was telling to you.” He grabbed her shoulder as he stood up. “Honey, permit me to go to bathroom.”

“Don’t sleep there,” she smiled.

He staggered as he walked towards the door.  She tossed her stilettos on the floor and began massaging her feet.

“I should not have drunk so much whiskey in the first place,” he said as he entered the room.

“Why did you drink so much today?”

“Not drunk,” he said. “But my chest is burning.”

“Oh! Too bad, you are destroying your health,” Her concern looked genuine.

He thumped on the sofa. She looked at him. “Do you want me to get ready?” She began unbuttoning her shirt.

He looked at her face and tried to remember the banknotes he had given her.


Comments

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *