Be honest: you want to belly up to the bar
straddling
the stool, heels tucked onto the lower rung.
Be
honest: the more expensive the scotch, the
fewer rocks you order.
But
here, at this honkeytonk in Southwestern Kentucky,
they
have only bottom shelf Dewars. The bartender, always in black,
always
strapped into a push up bra, thuds your cloudy poison
on
the bar with a nod and a wink. The ice jiggles,
like
her, and she reminds you she will be back
to
check on you. Your toes curl around the bar stool rung. You lean in.
Upstairs,
I have a bottle of 21 year old Ardmore.
One
cube, two at most. This is loamy liquid, peaty,
oozing
of earth raw and wrenched open with naked fingers. Nervous
worms
grapple around my palms as I pour you a glass. I am waiting for you.
I
left clues for you to find. Miniature mysteries, really.
While
you were rattling the cubes in your Dewars, I secreted
up
behind you, draped my red feather boa over your shoulders,
slid
it across the width of your back, pulling it slowly around your neck.
One
red feather lodged in your beard. Another
lingered
at
the corner of your mouth, remnants of the scotch soaking into it.
I
left a trail of red feathers across the barroom floor,
slopped
with the grease from spilled fried pickles.
They
decoupage the floor with mosaics of a fragmented boa.
I
wait at the top of the stairs. I lean and loiter along the bannister
where
I sprawl and stretch. I pull off white buttoned gloves.
I
crook my finger at you, signal you to rise and climb,
to
ascend this circular staircase suspended
between
alcoholic brawls and lace doilies.
Come on up and see
me some time, I
whisper,
hoping
my words will echo down the spiral staircase,
crawl
into your glass, take root
in
the bottom of your scotch.
