The greatest bookstore of them all?

 

McLeod’s bookstore, which can be found in downtown Vancouver, is a real gem.

The place has order among the disorder, despite first impressions: books are stacked everywhere – left, right and centre – the place genuinely looks like a bomb has hit it (and the owner just couldn’t be arsed cleaning up the resulting mess), and yet whenever I go in there with something in mind, I always manage to find it. There is an A-Z of fiction section, of course, it’s just that it’s surrounded by great walls of books – big, beautiful old walls straight out of the dreams of bibliophiles everywhere; walls that protect us and teach us and take us on journeys that will stay with us for life (sometimes).

This place has been referred to as “Canada’s finest antiquarian bookstore”, and that’s a fair description (although I do love The Wee Book Inn which can be found in Edmonton, Alberta). MacLeods (sounds like “mac louds”) is owned by one Don Stewart. Mr. Stewart always comes across calm, matter-of-fact and full of knowledge, and I suspect he’s told some great tales himself over the years.

This time around I was enjoying that unmistakable woody smell of old books as I wandered the aisles looking for short fiction by Ivan Turgenev. As usual, my adventure to find one book ended with me discovering many more, and I left with six in total (you can see them all below).

Have you made any trips to your local bookstore recently? If so, what did you get? And how was the bookstore? If it’s anything like MacLeod’s, I imagine you’ll be returning very soon—and leaving with more than you’d planned on bringing home.

Until next time, I will be in the bar, with my head on the bar . . .

 

dav

The Twitter Machine

 

Yep, I’ve gone and created a Twitter account. Got to do as much as possible to push my work (assimilate). Got to be (un)original. Got to stand out from the crowd (fade into obscurity)… I’ll try keep it as controversial as possible.

Follow me here:

 

With love and trepidation,

S.J.

Until next time, I will be in the bar, with my head on the bar . . .

Six Actors Who Always Bloody Die In Films

Picture this . . .

You’re an actor. You’ve wrapped up your first major movie. The night of the premiere arrives. The sheer excitement is almost too much to bear. You swagger your way down the red carpet dressed in your Sunday best, with a lovely lady or macho man on your arm (or maybe your ma — it’s good to take her out for a bit of glitz and glam every now and then, right?). You take your seat; the buzz of excitement and murmurs of expectation permeate the auditorium. The lights go down, the conversation is quelled—you could hear a pin drop, damn it!

And there it is—your movie on this gigantic screen; you spot your ugly mug, a shit-eating grin defines your face as you savor the moment. You’ve made it! But you know what’s coming . . . You know that the sun is setting on this first foray into the relentless and ruthless Hollywood machine. You know the character you’re playing is about to die.

The scene arrives. You see a giant version of you up there on the silver screen as your character breathes their last breath, utters their last words; so much blood fills the scene that the person next to you looks queasy—you offer them a bucket, if that’s how your ma raised you.

For an actor like Johnny Depp, this scenario isn’t too far from the truth. Legendary horror maestro Wes Craven’s ‘A Nightmare on Elm Street’ was Depp’s first film role, and his character Glen suffers a gruesome and iconic end at the hands (or razors) of Robert Englund’s Freddy Krueger. This wouldn’t be the first time Depp would see himself perish on screen, and for some actors they’ve watched themselves kick the bucket countless times (you’re thinking of the poor bastard Sean Bean, aren’t ya?). But dying over and over again ain’t so bad, not if you’re an actor—the more you’re dying on screen the more work you’re getting. Heck, some actors would kill to die on screen ad infinitum.

Here are six who go splat a lot. . .

 

  1. Bruce Willis

Bruce is the man. He’ll always be the man. And one of his greatest characters, John McClane, has thus far managed to avoid finding himself six-feet under. But the same can’t be said for many of his doomed dramatis personae. Bruce has seen himself breathe his last breath in front of a large audience no fewer than 12 times. Compared to some on this list, that’s not so many, but still . . . it’s Yippee-ki-yay, Brucie baby.

Best death in this writer’s humble opinion: Hartigan — Sin City, 2005

 

  1. Max von Sydow

This writer will always love Mr. von Sydow for his role as the reclusive artist Frederick in the great Woody Allen’s masterpiece ‘Hannah and Her Sisters’. But the Swedish-French actor has met his maker more than most thespians; from Ghostbusters II to the recent Star Wars: The Force Awakens, this prolific actor has dined with death over twenty times.

Best death in this writer’s humble opinion: Lankester Merrin — The Exorcist, 1973

 

  1. Mickey Rourke

Did he or did he not die at the end of The Wrestler, Darren Aronofsky’s moving sports drama about an aging pro wrestler? Well, that one’s up for debate in the comments section below. But even if we don’t count Randy “The Ram” Robinson, Rourke still has plenty of characters who’ve turned up their toes in the movie theatre, which definitely qualifies him for this list.

Best death in this writer’s humble opinion: Graff — The Last Outlaw, 1993

 

  1. Michael Biehn.

He has the honor of starring in two of the greatest sci-fi franchises of all time, and has met his maker in many well-known movies including Tombstone, The Abyss and Robert Rodriquez’s Planet Terror. He’ll forever be remembered for his roles in The Terminator and Aliens, and also for the amount of times he’s snuffed it on screen—a whopping 24. Hats off, Mikey.

Best death in this writer’s humble opinion: Kyle Reese — The Terminator, 1984

 

  1. John Hurt

Arguably the king of on-screen deaths,  the British actor saw over 40 of his characters perish. There’s one that stands out as the most gruesome, of course; Kane’s iconic end in Alien. Fun fact: many of the cast didn’t know what to expect during that scene, so those horrified expressions aren’t necessarily a result of years of training. Hurt’s characters met their end via hanging, explosions, drowning, fire and cliff-falls. In 2016, just a year before his death, the late great said, “I have died in so many spectacular ways, and I remember shooting them all, too. I imagine all those deaths will flash in front of me when I’m on my death bed, faced with the real thing.”

Best death in this writer’s humble opinion: Kane — Alien, 1979

 

  1. Gary Busey

The outspoken and talented character actor has appeared in over 150 films, including a turn as tragic rock ‘n’ roll idol Buddy Holly, which earned him an Academy Award nomination. When he’s not giving solid life advice to Lindsey Lohan and Paris Hilton, Busey delivers some unforgettable performances, and these include some equally unforgettable death scenes, including the end of Special Agent Peter Keyes in his meaty role in Predator 2 (see what I did there?).

Best death in this writer’s humble opinion: Ty Moncrief — Drop Zone, 1994

 

So there you go—six actors who’ve seen themselves bite the dust more times than corrupt politicians have been bought out by unscrupulous lobbyists. Of course there are many who could’ve made this list, like horror masters Vincent Price and Christopher Lee, or South African actress Charlize Theron (although she’s also come back to life a few times).

Anyway, last orders . . . I’m off .

Until next time, I will be in the bar, with my head on the bar . . .

 

This is a slightly altered version of an article I wrote under the pen name Frank Carver for the wonderful folks over at MovieBabble. Check ’em out!

 

Raison d’être (Or, The Ramblings of an Unsound Mind)

The following letters are to be sent in the unlikely event of my passing before the person to whom they are addressed.

They are to be sent as they are, and under no circumstances are they do be redacted, abridged or amended.

I would also like the following declaration, as well as my previous directions, to be affixed to the aforementioned letters:

I am of sound body and mind. I am of sound judgement. I am the ruler of no one but myself.

I am Alexander Klein.

I am sane.

May 9

On this day twenty-nine years ago we met for the first time. That’s all I have been thinking about. They said, after I had told them of my intention to write you, that there was a strong possibility my efforts would prove fruitless, that my wishes would likely be dismissed, but I write nonetheless. They stated that our “altercation” meant that I would be forbidden from having any contact with you, yet I will write.

   You probably remember our first encounter better than I ever possibly could, given the circumstances surrounding it. I’m sure you were filled with joy just as I am as I write, thinking about how it was. I’ve discussed with them how my mind becomes distorted,; memories can become quite vague. But those which consist of us remain vivid. Most of them.

   Do you remember the house in which we stayed all those years ago? I recall how I would sit in the kitchen some nights, nights when you would be reading, and I would think about you. I would play out scenarios in my mind in which I would enter the room and take your book. I would take your hands and sit next to you. But that was your time, you would say, to spend alone; the only time you ever had to yourself. You deserved it and I would not disturb it. In the house itself (in fact I’m not sure if you were ever aware of this) there was a copper box filled with old coins. I had found it in the cupboard to the left of the kitchen sink. Some of the coins dated back as far as the war I had read about at school and watched documentaries about on the television. I thought, for some reason, that they would be worth a vast sum of money. I kept them to myself in the case that they were valuable and that I could become quite wealthy. I don’t know why I never told you because I could never leave you. If it had turned out that they were worth something substantial I simply would have spent the money on the two of us, showering you with gifts of course. But they weren’t. I’m telling you this because I always felt terribly guilty at not having shared this information with you. Maybe you had known that they were there, but I still should have said something. For that I apologise.

   When I think about our time in that house I remember you as an effervescent soul. After the hardships you had overcome, one could accept if you were skeptical of the world and those who inhabited it, but you were quite the opposite. You were always quick with a smile, even to strangers, something that, in my opinion, people take for granted. That made me proud. When we would walk hand-in-hand and pass people by, I would watch you smile at them, and I would watch their reactions. I wasn’t being rude myself; I had an indelible smile fixed on my face as a result of merely looking at you.

   They were mostly happy times until Albert returned to live with us. If there is one thing which I am wholly against, something which irks me far greater than any prison cell ever could, it is a person who doesn’t value the gifts offered with life; the gift of independence and responsibility for oneself; the gift of the freedom to pursue greatness. Every individual is born with the freedom to pursue brilliance, regardless of the circumstances into which they are born. Everyone is born with an inherent greatness waiting to be unleashed, to be embraced. Those who choose to ignore it are the burden of mankind. Alas, my brother Albert was one of those who simply couldn’t see past his nose which sniffed only for quick fixes and terminable conveniences.

I believe it was April of that year when he returned 
having spent months living as a vagrant. He carried with him an odour; a stench of parasitic dependency. I always knew he would arrive on our doorstep with outstretched hands — I just didn’t think it would be so soon. The shift in the atmosphere was almost instantaneous. I knew you were always going to be ingratiating towards him. It was in your nature — it is your essence. Although I could never accept it. Nor could I accept him. I wasn’t happy until he left again to roam another city in search of whatever could benefit him in the short term.

   The duration of his stay, short as it may have been, was — as you sure recall — tumultuous. I rarely come to exchange physical blows with people: I am a true believer in  the non-aggression principle, and in the power of words. But on Albert words were lost; in his direction they would travel, only for him to dodge or ward them off. He wasn’t interested in the reason words offered, so a physical exchange was inevitable. One instance which is firmly lodged in my mind is the time (occurring on the seventeenth day of that month, I believe) when Albert had requested money to purchase a car. It was a beat up, hideous jalopy, but he had said it would serve him well, to help him on his way, he’d said. My anger was not in his wanting to leave of course — it was the fact that he had asked you for the requisite money. When I confronted him about his leeching ways we quarrelled. Afterwards I gave him the money myself and told him to purchase the car and to leave us in peace, never to return. This, I am sure, pained you. You didn’t deserve to witness our tempestuous relationship, and for that I also apologise.

I prefer to forget Albert and the period of his lodging 
with us. Dwelling on it has no good to offer either of us. I would assume you feel the same way. Our time spent together was far too precious to place in the same memory vault as the one which stores Albert, or anything else for that matter. The vault is solely for you and I.

It pains me to write with the main purpose of 
apologising for certain things, but in cleansing myself of the guilt which accompanies those memories of you (even if Albert does feature in some), I can recall them with a greater fondness. I hope, too, that this will help you look back on them with a heightened appreciation.

It is my intention to keep my exchanges with you short, 
as I feel it would be inappropriate for me to flood you with the incessant thoughts I have on a daily basis. I have been meticulous in my deciding what to write you.

-Alexander



June 17

   Since I first wrote a letter I had intended to send to you, which they tell me is still pending approval, my thoughts have mostly been consumed by the developments which led to my current state of incarceration.

   I was, at the best of times, one who was extremely passionate in my beliefs and feelings. I can freely admit I was quite an intense person — something for which, in contrast with my previous letter of grovelling (to be critical of myself), I shall never offer apologies. One’s principles are something that can never be stolen or debased. They are mine to alter if I please — no one else has that privilege. It is clear I have never altered those principles or beliefs. In doing so I would be nothing more than a hypocrite.

   The day when our relationship reached a point from which there would be no return — our crossing of the Rubicon — fell on a Tuesday, during winter. I have trouble recalling the month, which is something that greatly irritates me. I remember the day but not the month. Strange as it is I believe my brain has chosen to forget it, in order, perhaps, to spare me the pain that that month may now bring. It is something I have not discussed with a single person. I’m sure you know. What distresses me is how it was simply a misunderstanding that got completely out of hand. I could never harbour any ill feeling toward you, but there is a hint of disappointment which I can never shake from my being. In doing what I did, I felt I was protecting you, even though you did — and always will — refuse to believe it. In my murdering him I was following the instinctive nature of the animal, which is, when one considers our ancestry, what we are essentially. Being protective is innate just like the gift of potential greatness life offers us. In my assaulting you (which I still maintain was a complete accident) I destroyed everything that was precious in my life. The crime I am interned for was hardly down to the display of the dominant male (which they will argue it is) — it is the acts I took against you. It is not the cell which punishes me, it is the knowledge that I squandered the relationship which was so very dear to me.

   I’ve also thought about the media coverage which surrounded the trial. It is without vanity and with the utmost honesty that I can say I am an attractive person, as are you, and as was he. Everyone loves an attractive victim. Don’t you think there is far more coverage from the press when a person who is murdered happens to be quite attractive? Especially when the victim is a woman. ‘So beautiful’ they say. ‘What a terrible loss’ . . . If the victim isn’t the most attractive, well, let us say the victim was horribly deformed. Do you think there would be such a public outcry of grief, as well as that from the press? I do feel, personally, that looks add more to the story. The same goes for the perpetrator; in this case me. In the past, when I have followed a murder trail, I have noticed far greater coverage when the accused is kind on the eyes. I recall an American girl who was accused of murder who practically became a celebrity. I am firmly of the belief that if she was not attractive (and she was indeed very attractive) she and the case would have garnered little attention.

   This is not important of course — merely an observation. What is important is that you know that my feelings toward you have never changed. They will never change. The disappointment may remain but it is more with those who surrounded and misguided you in the aftermath of that life-altering day. I hope — and I believe — that you still think of me and the days we spent together with nothing less than great affection.

-Alexander

 

October 22

Ma chère,

   In the past few hours I have received news that my brother, Albert, has died. Of course you know of this. I would be content if we could grieve together. Sitting alone (as I’m sure you are, too) at a time of desolation is a sentence more unbearable than the one which was handed down to me after our misunderstanding. It is common knowledge shared between the two of us that I had little time for Albert, but he was blood, and the blood of a sibling is greater than that of the blood of a sacrifice offered for the greater good. Is it the greatest paradox to abhor a sibling whom you truly love?

   I’m led to believe he was stabbed to death during an altercation at a bar near a Parisian suburb. I never imagined he would die in France. He had told me he disliked the people, so why he returned there I will never know. The catalyst for his own downfall . . . I expected nothing less.

   My previous attempts to write you were denied so I had refrained from putting ink to paper. It pained me, you see, to waste these words on nothing more than paper. I feel, though, in the event of my death, they may acquiesce and allow you to receive my letters. This would serve as my satisfying last meal. Albert’s passing has prompted me to write again, with my thoughts solely on the pain you must be experiencing at this time. Though he and I had our differences, I’m aware that you were quite fond of him. You were always blinded by your kind nature, something which you should never be ashamed of. It is what defines you.

In thinking about the suffering you may be experiencing 
I have been reminded of a time in my life which, perhaps, defined me. It was the day my father died, which we’ve discussed on numerous occasions. In thinking about my father, I am not reminded of grief, or any feelings of real anguish. These feelings never accompanied his death. We were together when he died of course, and I can still feel the grip of your hand entwined with mine at the funeral. That grip — which was as tight as you had ever held my hand — I was sure would remain the same from that day forward. In losing my father, I had gained a true companion in you. Someone who would be there for me as I would be for them. I remember how you were saddened much more than I was during the months that followed. I had assumed -—and to this day still do — that your pain was in relation to the pain you had imagined I was feeling. It never occurred to me to tell you that, far from feeling grief, I was elated at the
prospect of us being together. Thinking, with the squeeze of your hand on the day of his burial, that I truly had someone who was mine. Not someone to dominate, but to share
my life with.

   There’s a question which has resurfaced in my mind many times since I have been here: Why have our lives turned out this way? How could the predisposition to protect someone
in every way possible lead to a separation of immense tragedy? I have never been able to arrive at a fulfilling answer to the question. But I think of the greatest stories ever told, and they are all tragic. That offers a comfort which I’m sure we can both appreciate until we die.

As always, and forever — with love, mother.

-Alexander

At a Loss

Since she died I’ve noticed that my ability to speak with others is being slowly eradicated, gradually fading away like this emaciated pink bar of soap I use as I bathe.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

This water will soon be cold and I’ll step out, dripping. I will shiver. The bathroom will be unwelcoming and I’ll leave in a hurry; my scrawny, pathetic body with its limp flesh covered by a damp, frayed, yellow towel.

But for now I will bathe.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

This is not the first instance in which I’ve considered my verbal constipation. It’s been a number of years since this inadequacy began to rear its ugly head.

I stumble over my words, if I’m fortunate enough find them.

The water in the porcelain tub swashes as I sit forward and look out the bathroom window which is ajar. The cool air envelopes my face. The day is bright. I see the woman from one of the houses opposite mine (number forty-four, I believe) as she hangs her washing in her back garden. I consider masturbating, but my thoughts are too busy to construct a pleasing fantasy. Once again the water dances as I rest my back against the cool tub.

I wash my underarms.

There is a great void in my mind, it seems — I cannot express myself with the requisite words when prompted.

And what if I do not speak? What if I instead choose silence? Where will I be then? How will I live — in this highly connected, this garrulous world — when I find it such a challenge to assemble a satisfying sentence? How can I, for instance, charm a member of the opposite sex with my daft tongue? (It’s not just what lines the pockets that dictates a woman’s interest in the male of the species. The power of words, ah, yes. Powerful, indeed. Powerful, too, is a distinct lack of them.)

Drip. Drip. Drip.

But not my short supply. A silence that is chosen can be a cunning tactical move, but a silence that indiscriminately finds one during discourse is as debilitating as a thunderous kick to the groin.

Like, for instance, only a week ago when — against my better judgement — I agreed to meet with a number of work colleagues. Upon being asked a question about my education (Where was it you studied all those years ago in Germany, Felix?), I faltered. Of course I responded by stating the name of the exact place where I had studied, but that was it. No substantiating or elaborative information followed. Instead, a silence of immense discomfort. Only when the group had moved on to another topic had I conjured up the desired information I had wished to share with them, but by then it was too late.

I was forever missing trains; always knowing where I wanted to go but never reaching my destination in time.

I debated whether or not I was suffering from a crisis of confidence, that perhaps the youth of today was somehow intimidating me, but even when I spoke to those with whom I’ve been familiar for years I found myself lacking. There appears to have occurred some catastrophic incident within the cerebral cortex, an incident which I cannot comprehend. For when I write, it is fine. When I sing, it is perfect. When I dance, my steps find themselves effortlessly. My thought process isn’t fazed in solitude. The frontal lobe does not shut down when I’m alone. Is the frontal lobe really responsible for my social deficiency? Is it merely a result of some sort of social anxiety? Perhaps. Do I feel anxious? Not to my knowledge. I’m merely struck down with some sort of ‘dumb’ syndrome at the most inconvenient times.

Or, perhaps, it’s delayed grief.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Even the tap which I cannot turn any further is more prolific than me.

I splash the ever-cooling water onto my chest and run my soapy hands over my well-fed stomach.

I am not an object of desire.

I place my hands each side of the tub and pull myself forward. The woman from number forty-four is still in her garden. I’ve watched her on many occasions. The female form is forever distracting, invariably alluring, occasionally tormenting. I cannot remember the last time I had sex. I do, however, remember the final time I had intercourse with her.

 

***

 

My current state of vocabularic impotence hadn’t found me at that time. Her name was Lucy. She was American (from Pittsburgh) and weighed approximately 15st, and what attracted me to her was her brown eyes which suggested an open, warm heart. We met when I was in my late-forties. Lucy was two years older.

Together we enjoyed simple pleasures in life. For hours each day we would sit indoors reading and listen to music. Her favourite authors were Joe R. Lansdale, Stephen King, and John Saul. Her favourite musicians were Billy Idol, INXS, and Blondie. Her favourite snack was a chocolate éclair; I would regularly find her in bed, wrapped in a duvet reading Night Shift while devouring the oblong pastry.

Lucy engendered in me a firm belief in being oneself: she wore what she pleased, however unflattering. She sang at the top of her voice, despite her inability to hit one correct note. She ate her éclairs whenever she felt the urge.

Now that I think about it, I recall an instance when my apparently latent inability to form an articulate sentence may have signalled its existence during that period.

In our apartment, which was situated above a Chinese restaurant (the smells from which would regularly slip under our door and greet us and our guests like irksome door-to-door salesmen), we were hosting a small gathering of friends — Lucy’s friends.

Lucy had spent the afternoon cooking. Beads of sweat on her forehead captured her russet fringe, so it stuck there until she would wipe her brow with the greasy tea towel. She would regularly swear when she cooked; becoming vexed by the slightest inconvenience.

“Fuckin’ macarone,” she’d say. “Boil, you basta’d kettle!”

Of course I found these outbursts rather odd. One may get angry and curse, sure, but to scold a kettle for not boiling fast enough?

I would make myself scarce as frequently as possible when Lucy prepared food, and afterwards I would scour the kitchen for any stains she may have missed when cleaning — a product of my OCD.

During the friendly gathering Lucy’s friend, Noel, a reticent, plaintive and socially awkward fellow, found the courage to ask me where I grew up.

“Speilenstanz,” I told him. Then, I rocked from heel to toe as we both stood waiting for the other to continue to speak, as the numerous conversations taking place in the room swirled around Noel and I as if to mock us. We both smiled. I rocked back and forth some more. This is when I should’ve known there was something on the horizon, that some sort of irreversible malfunction had occurred up there.

Noel, sensing my dishevelment bordering on despair, pushed himself to his conversational limit in a bid to sustain the pathetic attempt at a discussion.

“It’s charming, or so I’ve heard.”

“Yes!” I enthused, quite relieved. “Yes, it’s very quiet. It’s, um, a quiet place.” I gave him a sheepish smile and excused myself, entering the kitchen as Lucy was muttering swear words at a carrot she was chopping, and I quietly sank into a chair by the kitchen table.

I put my inability to converse down to fatigue; I had been feeling tired most of the week, after all. Work had indeed been long and arduous at the time.

While I sat in a daze, I looked over at my lovely Lucy as she prepared the carrot.

“I thought you’d cooked everything earlier today?”

“We’re out of pre-meal snacks. I’m chopping some carrots for dipping into the hummus.” She stood upright and flopped her wrist back so that the knife pointed away from me. “You look off colour. Did you have too much to drink? You know you can’t handle more than two gin and tonics.”

“I’ve barely indulged, my Lucy. And I can handle more than two G&Ts. I’m not a bloody child.”

“Sweetheart, get yourself a drink of water and get back outside. We’re the hosts, we can’t both be absent from the living room at the same time. So if you don’t mind…” She flipped her hand back the other way, so she was now pointing the knife at me. I’m still unsure as to whether or not this was a threat.

Eventually, after a couple of G&Ts, I found my voice once again and the words rolled off my tongue like marbles off a coffee table. I freely participated in conversation while poor Noel stood by nodding his head and sipping his drink uncomfortably.

Fatigue, yes! That’s all it was.

The night had proved a success, and Lucy and I had intercourse soon after everyone had left. The next morning, a Sunday, I had forgotten about Noel and those few embarrassing minutes, and Lucy and I took a morning stroll to the supermarket where she purchased three fresh chocolate éclairs.

Back at home we lay in bed together while Debbie Harry told how once she had a love and it was a gas. After finishing two éclairs Lucy turned on her side and, as I read Faulkner, I placed one hand on her massive hips as I held the book open in the other.

“Felix?” she asked me in between deep, laborious breaths.

“Yes, my dear?”

“Rub my back.”

I placed the book page-down on the duvet so I could resume reading where I had left off, as Lucy turned onto her stomach — her face becoming lost in the pillow.

Placing my knees either side of her and resting my bottom on her calves, I lifted up her carmine red T-shirt, revealing the pale white and acne-covered skin. With both thumbs I pressed deep into the muscles causing the skin to crease and Lucy to release a number of low moans.

“Don’t be afraid to be tough,” she said — her words muffled by the pillow in which her face was nestled.

Halfway through the massage I changed the CD from Blondie to INXS. Lucy had a thing for Michael Hutchence, and — fully aware that I offered little sex appeal to the female of the species — I would play his band’s music in a bid to conjure up a sexual fantasy in her mind: INXS were nothing more than an aphrodisiac, and quite an effective one.

After ‘Mystify‘ had finished, I moved my hands from her back to her enormous thighs. With much effort I parted her legs — it was like lifting two massive slabs of beef — and began to rub between her inner thighs and her buttocks.

By this stage I had developed an erection, and with one hand continuing the massage, I manoeuvred my penis from my underwear with the other and began to touch myself.

Soon thereafter I noticed that Lucy wasn’t being receptive to my massage; which by now had moved to her vagina. This wasn’t unusual, however, as she would prefer to lie static during intercourse more often than not. Highly aroused, I continued, and, positioning myself higher up the bed, I rested one hand on the pillow by her head and used the other to position my penis between her legs.

After no more than twenty thrusts I climaxed inside her.

Never Tear Us Apart‘ began to play through the speakers as I used the bed sheets to wipe my penis clean. I lay on my back looking at the ceiling, spent.

“A little quicker than usual,” I snickered, then turned to Lucy whose face was still buried in the pillow. “Were you thinking of him or me?” I asked.

Lucy didn’t respond.

“Lucy?” I called, but still she failed to acknowledge me. Had she grown tired of me? Of us. Did the latest round of lacklustre sex arouse in her a latent depression?

As Hutchence declared that we could live for a thousand years, I rested my hand on her shoulder nearest me and shook her gently. “Lucy,” I intoned, but still there was no reply.

 

***

 

When I called for the ambulance my voice trembled.

“Where is she now?” the woman on the other end of the phone asked.

“In bed,” I answered, my words laced with panic and shame. “We were… having sex.”

The paramedics arrived a short time later and pronounced Lucy dead at the scene. Before they left one of them noticed the case of the INXS record.

“Good, huh?” he said.

“They’re OK,” I opined quietly. “Do I go with you?”

“My colleague here is going to ask you a number of questions.”

I looked at Lucy, who by now was spread on the gurney with a white sheet covering her whole body. With her massive belly and pointed feet the sheet looked like a miniature model of a snow-covered mountain range. I imagined tiny people skiing down her stomach and over her breasts, towards her thorax.

Later that evening, having attended the mortuary, I returned to the apartment and sat myself down on the bed on which Lucy had been lying only hours earlier. I reached for the remote for the stereo system and pressed play; the system automatically choosing disc three.

Driving drums began and Billy Idol proceeded to sing ‘Mony Mony’.

I lay my head on the pillow next to Lucy’s; the indentation made by her head still remained, and Billy sang with great vitality. I had never cared much for that track, but somehow it was the perfect song to accompany me at that moment. I reached my hand over to the empty space next to me where usually I would find Lucy’s hefty presence. I ran my fingers over the now cold duvet cover.

Lucy was gone.

 

***

 

The bathwater is now quite cool. My skin is puckered and the room lacks condensation. I move forward, reaching for the tap, twisting the handle, but all the hot water is gone. I look out the window once again; the woman from forty-four has long left the garden. A chill envelopes my face and I settle back into the tub.

I picture Lucy and think about my worry over words, and a faint chuckle arrives. When I think about her and I together, and when I consider our exchanged words, my memory serves me monosyllabic ones like ‘love’, and ‘rub’, and ‘soap’. Words such as ‘back’, and ‘hug’, ‘kiss’, and ‘play’. These are the important ones. I wonder, for a moment, if I’ll experience another relationship before I die. I’m in my mid-fifties, hardly an old age pensioner. I can still muster an erection. Even the thoughts of that last sexual encounter with my lovely Lucy had me mildly aroused, despite the morbid nature of the recollection.

I cannot be sure if my struggle with words is a result of Lucy’s passing, or something that predates her departure from us. I cannot be sure if I’ll ever be able to attract another woman, given my current predicament. What I am sure of, however, is that I have a window in my bathroom.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

And that’s something.

 

Pieces of you

If your mouth were a cave

I would crawl into it,

and find my way to the cranial staircase.

I would reach for every message —

every signal sent — and read each one earnestly.

If your thoughts were an ocean

I would dive into it,

and let the tides carry me wherever.

If your body were a mountain

I would ascend it,

and gather from the scree the pieces of you that were lost over the years.

I would tackle your crags and your slopes

until I reached your peak, holding your fragile fragments in my cupped hands.

If my body were a diary

I would open my pages for you

so you could write down all the things that you cannot tell me.