City of Singles Read Online Free PDF Page B

front door. Without any surprise, spaced out people sometimes space out on this shit. Fuck it. An obvious high step over them and maybe she’ll smile.
    A hasty beeline to the fridge and from the freezer emerges a twixer of spiced rum. Tucking the bottle under my arm, two spare hands find bottles of orange juice and a club soda. Misha is sitting on a bar stool patiently. An eager slide through the curtained border between business and pleasure, an important delivery for sure. Eye contact kept as I walk up to put the bottles down on the black glass bar. One might wonder what a bar is doing in an office space, but when you work with artists, liquor and drugs are frequent and close co-workers. Misha picks up a crystal glass and rubs around the rim with her finger. It hums and she twirls the glass intently. I don’t have time to waste waiting for her to put it down. My head rocks back for rum, a mouthful straight from the bottle. Warmth felt. Two fingers of mine pinch the vessel from Misha’s hand and pour her a Gastown Punch. Half orange juice and equal parts club soda, add spiced rum. I pour one for myself, no cherry garnish as alcohol aesthetics aren’t important when you’re trying to get shitfaced.
    A clink of glass and a toast to nothing we’ve discussed. Popsicle-like flavour washes over my mouth, tangy and sweet, perfect for kissing. Stumblean posture pulls me down over the bar and my lips find Misha’s. She kisses me back hard before giggling after our lips touch for the third time. When her mouth opens her soft tongue thrashes around against mine. She reaches forward and pulls on my shirt, a faint moan erupts from her. Our lips unlock and she breathes out heavily. My war spear rigid with the anticipation of the moment it will be coated in bitch dew. Misha doesn’t hesitate, and slams her drink back in two mouthfuls. Mine is downed in three. She slides out of the barstool and looks around the room.
    A purple leather couch is directly in the middle of the business section, facing a large computer monitor. I must have been doing a presentation again that I forgot about, the middle of the room is usually reserved for art. Misha slowly walks over to the couch and crawls onto it seductively. She is on her elbows and knees, looking back at me with a coy smile from over her shoulder. It’s time to see if there is still some fire to all of this smoke.

4 Tastes Like Copper
    Three beeps of the alarm, two seconds of dead air and a single thud marks the passing of tonight’s girlfriend. Whipping my arm around and releasing, the fluids-rag flies overhand into the laundry basket, nothing but net. The couch is folded out and I’m sprawled across it nude. The leather under me is warm, I must have fallen asleep. The only sound a whirring of the bathroom fan. A louvered saint of exhaust, I owe those spinning blades so much for putting up with my shit. Sometimes its switch gets neglected and it drones on for days.
    I’m cold. My mother always used to tell me to put on a sweater and socks if I thought the house was chilly. That kid grew into a teenager and began thinking of this as a sign of poverty. A perpetually young adult living on his own and discovering a toasty house can cost a few hundred bucks per month.
    This man shivers.
    Cool air settles on my chest and face. As the colours dance on my eyelids, I try and hold onto the endorphin high from sex a little bit longer. Imagination theater or a memory tour, the curtains that serve to keep both hidden are pulled apart by fatigue. They open when my eyes are closed, in moments I recognize green iron and the white lights of the Lion’s Gate Bridge.
    It’s late and I’m driving, she’s riding with me. You know which one Dylen, the one with the haunted eyes and demure movements. If a cat could ballet, she would be a Persian in point shoes. My little Dark Heart would put a black swan to shame.
    My balls itch. The remnants of my date and I form a cracked and flaking shell of lust