Inspiration Point-Zero-Eight

She’s supposed to be here by three. At 3:02 I figure she’s running late - no big deal. By 3:19 I’m hoping she’s okay while running through my Pentateuch of worse case scenarios: Accident, Injury, the Hospital, Murder, Rape and Sodomy. By 3:36 half the pitcher is gone and I’m starting to figure she decided not to show up after all. By 3:54 the entire pitcher is gone and the inconsiderate little bitch can fuck herself six ways from Sunday for all I goddamn care - who needs her? It’s not like I actually wanted to see her anyway. Who does she think she is? Bitch! I shaved for this?!

At 4:10 the front door opens and she comes in with a blast of cold air, stomping the slush muck off of her boots and letting her cascade of brown hair out from under a snowy ski hat. She takes off her sunglasses and I watch her emerald green eyes scan the restaurant to find me smiling from a booth behind the bar. Manon gives it back with enough wattage to light the sky and I’ve forgiven her by the time she sits across from me. Still, I have the presence of mind to be hiding the empty pitcher on the bench beside me while she still can’t see. What she does see is an empty glass and an old friend happy to see her.

“Can I buy you another one of those, big boy?”

“You might but you won’t. My invite, my treat. What would you like?”

“Do they still observe Fishbowl Friday in this hallowed establishment?”

“Electric Popsicle?”

“Yes please.”

Of course, the manager’s been told that Manon Champlain’s in the house and he’s at our table before I can look for a waitress. I order her fishbowl and a half pint of Kritters Dark a half dozen times while he’s busy trying to find his wits and Manon pretends not to notice his tongue hanging out. “Right away, Sir?” he says with as much cool as he’s capable of mustering before staggering back to the bar.

“When did you become a Sir?” Manon asks when he’s out of earshot.

“Right after he saw that the heiress apparent of Canada’s greatest shipping fortune was sitting across from me, I suppose. It’s not every day we see national celebrities around here.” That is only if a recently publicized love affair with a political scion counts as celebrity.

“Did you miss me?” she asks with a wicked gleam in her eye.

“More than words can say, Ma’mselle Champlain,” I say and she must see the truth in mine because her hand covers mine on the table and she lets it stay.

It’d be one of those truly precious moments except for all the cursing and shouting at the far end of the bar. We can both hear the manager shouting inarticulate instructions at a hapless bartender and then stop suddenly with the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. I’m thinking someone dropped Manon’s fishbowl until a waitress comes hustling around the bar with both drinks in hand and a harried expression on her face.

“Is everything okay?” Manon asks with enough genuine concern to roll my eyes in despair.

“We’ll know after the ambulance comes,” she says, setting the right drink in front of the right customer with the practiced ease of a true professional. “The fry cook - he was a doctor in Uganda before coming here - anyway, the fry cook’s thinking maybe the manager took a stroke. My name’s Donna and I’ll be your server this evening. Can I get that pitcher out of your way sir?”

Manon’s pretty bow mouth’s been stuck open with disbelief and snaps shut when I hand the pitcher over. When the waitress is gone Manon removes her hand from mine for the sole purpose of slapping me. “I told you not to get drunk before I got here.”

“And I told you not to hit me anymore. What are you gonna’ do about it?”

“Just have to catch up, I suppose.” And shows me what she means by sucking back the top two inches of her fishbowl in three long swallows.

“Yo, Tracy Lords, no deep throating the drinks,” I tell her. “This is a family place.”

Manon’s quick but she can’t get the napkin in front of her face before a spray of electric blue popsicle exits onto the tabletop via her nose in a choked laugh. “Son of a bitch!” she yells once her breath returns. “You did that on purpose!”

“Yeah, for hitting me. So, going forward, watch yourself.” She’s got a grin on again so I push it a bit. “And while you’re at it, try remembering where we are. This is our sacred friendship-staking ground you’re gobbing all over.”

“Keep it up and I’ll gob all over you mister,” she says before going down for more. For a girl who’s all of five-foot-fuck-all, No-no can drink her some liquor.

“Promises, promises…” I mutter around the rim of my own glass. She just smiles around her straw and rolls her eyes.

The game we’re playing’s an old one between us. We’ll skirt the edge of Propriety Avenue and maybe take a step or two up Risky Street but never make it Downtown. The rules don’t change even if the players have. Or that’s what I’m ready to swear to until Manon comes up for air to tell me, “Shut up and finish that so we can get out before the ambulance gets here.”

“Yes, Ma’mselle. Your humble servant.” Now it’s a race to finish and the odds makers in my head are shouting for me to let her keep the early lead and win this one. Still, it’s a matter of semi-professional pride that I chug mine back quick enough to seem like I’m still in it. I’ve got two swallows left when I hear her straws hit bottom.

“’Face! Now pay up while I tinkle, Sucka’!” she shouts and it’s my turn to choke on a drink. What can I say? She beat me but at least I get to watch her walking away toward the bathroom.

Her coat’s to obviously expensive to leave while I pay so I grab it after pulling on my own. Coming around the bar I see a pair of feet peeking out from under a “Caution: Wet Floor” sign set up at the end. The bartender’s doing his best to ignore the stroked out (according to the fry cook) manager and manages a smile when I give him my server’s name and table number. By the time I’m telling him to keep the change Manon’s back relieving me of her coat and taking my hand. She practically pulls me out of the restaurant and up the street with her coat open to the cold.

“Where’re we headed?” Iask trying to do mine up one-handed.

“My hotel, “ she says. I’ve got time to think we might actually see the far end of Risky Street before she adds, “There’s now way I was going to use the bathroom in there…” (An approaching ambulance drowns her out so I watch her lips move. The 62,000 pounds of steel and lights hurtles past kicking up a wake of slush muck and road salt. Of course, I’ve taken to walking between her and the street and catch the brunt but she does have the good grace to shake a few drops from her hat.) “…and take a wicked slash.”

The entire left side of my body is a cold dripping mess of slush muck and a hint of road salt. “Dibs on a towel.”

“Fear not, faithful retainer, we’re nearly there.” Turns out she’s staying just up the block at the Coach House - nice place. She’ll have one of the suites on the top floor and, sure enough, we take the elevator up to five and she’s got the bay side view. “You can have the bathroom after me,” she says while running to slam the door behind her.

I can hear the quick rasp of her zipper before it shuts. “Run for it, Gramma.”

“Mind your mouth and stay on the tile, please,” she shouts over the venting fan. “You’re soaked.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

The front room’s standard hotel lounge fare with a sectional couch and a large flat screen TV on the far wall. She’s got it muted on the Weather Channel as per usual and the remote’s out of reach. Personally, I’ve never understood the fascination with knowing how hot it is in Lagos or how much rain fell in Manilla. It’s arse goblin cold outside and snowing like it’s going out of style. Fuck sakes, Why isn’t that enough? And how long does it take a woman to piss? And what was that “faithful retainer” shit about?

“No-no, I’m dripping weather out here!”

She must have been waiting for a cue. Her hair’s fixed and she’s perfect, practically skipping out the door towards the bedroom. “Help yourself to a shower, I’ll call down for laundry service, there’s a fresh robe in there with your name on it.”

“Thanks.”

The bathrooms all pale green marble and copper fixtures like it was made for her. Figures, she’s always getting away with shit like that. Stripping off my sodden layers of winter wear takes but a second after I turn the hot water faucet on to full. By the time I step into the stall and draw the curtain the rooms all steam and welcome relief. The hot water jazzes my nervous system to maximum and it’s ecstasy after the soaking. I can let myself imagine how it happened to be that I’m here at all and draw the conclusion that it’s all Manon’s design. What else? Maybe there isn’t even a teacher’s conference in town? Maybe she wants me?

Maybe I should wake up?

My steam pressure shifts enough to let me know the door’s open. Just Manon collecting my dirty clothes. I’m half tempted to ask her in but she’d make me turn on the cold water so I pass. She coughs theatrically on the other side of the curtain and shuts the door behind her. I figure I’ve got about ten minutes before she comes back in to bitch me out about conservation and all that crap so why not save the hassle. A quick soap down, shampoo, rinse and the shower’s off. Grope for a handy towel and watch the room clear of steam while drying - good shower.

And, wouldn’t you know, the robe really does have my name on it.

“Got a hairbrush I can borrow, No-no?” I ask, coming out of the bathroom and fingering the robes embroidered me.

“No,” she says in a way that makes my heart skip, “but I’ll let you lend me a hand.”

She’s standing in the dark bedroom doorway with nothing but a buzz on and grins at my stunned disbelief. Yes, I’ve imagined her naked about a gozillian times but this is fantasy made flesh and I’m dumbstruck. She’s loving every minute of it too - my equally obvious discomfiture and arousal. The odds makers in my head have thrown their slips in the air and yell at me to do something awesome or at least say something cool. “Huh?”

She grins even wider, turns and slips into the dark. I follow her as if drawn on a lead and the room smells of perfumed sheets and burning herb. Manon’s stretched across the bed bottom side up plucking a bomber joint off a polished copper ashtray. She beckons with a wink and I’m lying across from her more at ease knowing their’s pot to hand until she turns on her side and I can see the highlights of her delectables. She takes a puff on the joint, passes and lets the smoke trickle out of her mouth in a slow exhale.

Smoking returns some measure of calm and gets me thinking again. “Did you plan this?” I ask her after a half dozen puffs and a pass back.

She shakes her head on the inhale, props here head up on her hand, staring into my eyes, passes back.

“Hmmm…” It’s good weed but then Manon’s always had the best since I’ve known her. She’s grinning and reaching out for the front of my robe, plucking at the deep fuzz. “And so, what?”

“Some questions have no answers, Ronnie,” she says and plucks the joint back. “Just relax.”

“Hmmm…” My eyes leave hers to run up and down the length of her body - perfect dark food imagination. A line of drool starts its way down my chin and gets sucked back but she’s seen and laughs out puffs of smoke.

Then she kisses me and I’m kissing her back with a delicate hesitancy that makes her moan and crush our lips together so that her tongue can dance with mine. She’s got the robe open in two quick motions, tangle her fingers through my chest hair and I’ve got my hand full of a perfect breast. By the time we come up for air we’re both engaged with each other’s fun bits and she’s so soft and slick I almost cream. But there’s a piece of a deep part in me that’s wanted this action for a long time and holds back long enough for the overexcitement to pass. She gasps when my fingers synch up on her buttonhole and…

The rest is none of your damn business.

Sorry.