Saturday, July 28, 2012

Idea Number Twelve: Results

This entry courtesy of Lux Lush--open to feedback

I followed him into the dimly lit kitchen, barely sitting down across from him before he was waving a bottle at me. 


Not really in the mood until I knew what this was about, I nodded anyway. Saying no would clearly have been lost on him as he was already filling up two glasses. Double hits and no rocks equalled smooth sailing, but Scotch had a bite I never liked to swallow this late in the night.

"What's going on, buddy boy?" I questioned as he shoved a glass in my direction.

With a shaky hand, he lifted the other glass to his lips and motioned for me to do the same.

I raised my glass as he rambled out a gruff “In a minute.“ But, if a minute was needed, it was for his nerves. The liqour seemed to disappear down his gullet in a flash.

Maybe I would need the drink after all.

I took a sip, waiting for the revelation.

Why offer me the top-shelf stuff if not to soften the blow that accompanied a hard confession of the tongue? Or was I misreading this whole moment, and the frenzied but stone-cold sober look he‘d given me the second after I knocked on his door?

No. Sherlock to my Watson, we read each other like books, and tonight I was thumbing the pages of an all too familiar chapter. After twenty-odd years, this wasn't the first time he had been on edge in my presence.

"I...I..." he stammered, staring at the empty glass in his hand as if it held the words he'd now lost. 

I took another sip, feeling as though I should have thrown it all down the hatch and silently slid the glass over for another go. If he was speechless - this wasn‘t good. No wonder the bottle was close to empty. Ever the optimist, my old friend was obviously drowning in some sorrow or trying to drown out the buzzing of an old demon of regret.

"Christ," he uttered, throwing his glass at the wall behind me. "I shoulda known what's dead and buried never stays buried. Only sure thing is the dead stay dead, but even the secrets that go with them don't always stick to the grave."

I felt my stomach knot and twist at the mention of the dead, and without hesitation, reached for the bottle of Scotch.

Filling my glass to the brim, there was no fooling around now. I didn't think, didn't breathe, just chugged and let the booze burn.

I knew what had him anxious and would soon have me right there with him.

"Morgan?" My voice but a whisper, saying the name I thought we'd never speak of again.

"Morgan..." he confirmed in a tone so low I just made it out over the pulsing in my head.

Silence enveloped us as our eyes locked across the table.

That name was long dead and buried between us... or at least we both thought it had been.

No comments:

Post a Comment