BOOZE, BROADS AND CIGARETTES.

A WOMAN AND HER LIFE.

I come here every night, said Grace; I come for my booze and smokes and for the barman to whisper in my ear the secrets of his trade. In the background jazz is being played; some Stan Getz's saxophone filters through the air along with smoke and conversations from the crowded bar. My father's cigarettes were my first stolen smokes, his vodka, hidden in the bottom drawer of his writing desk, became my secret drink, my passion, my love. I would gaze at the photo of my mother, taken before her midlife madness; and in my drunken stare, would pick out the features of her that I loved, that were captured there. My ears hold the saxophone phrase, the low notes, the sexy feel, the way it enters in, turns me round and round, then leaves me pondering, why the barman's Italian eyes smoulder as he takes me in, his dark pupils washing over me like soft spilt oil over silken skin. Kelly brought me here many times before her death; I see her often in my drunken gaze, her slim figure, her blonde hair, her lustful ways. She was the only woman I slept with, the only one who grabbed my heart; her limbs entwined me, her lips found mine, her embrace held away my nightly fears and her gentle finger brushed away my tears. Stanton loves me or so he says; his money buys me clothes and sex and high life holidays; his voice vibrates my ears; his hands handle my flesh; his penis pushes itself between my thighs, and as it does, the little girl still lost in me, nightly cries. I pull on my cigarette; I let the smoke enter my lungs, the nicotine flows through my blood and veins. The booze softens my world; it makes the rough edges smooth, the cutting remarks it blunts with ease and the wearying words of my big time boss, I piss down the john, along with memories of my father's nightly touch and feels and spanks and rows. The barman speaks in his Italian tone; his words slipping from his tongue like oysters from their shells; his eyes caressing me with their wanton desire; he licks his lips as thoughts melt in his mind and set him on fire. When Stanton comes he'll buy more booze, he'll put his arm around my waist, kiss my ear, whisper his wants, give words to kinky ways, mouth his sexy scenarios of him and me and the bed, or floor, or maybe the bath, just for the once, just for a laugh; me in my schoolgirl attire (bought by him for his deep down desire) and he, like some stern paternal figure, ready to spank me, as my father did, in those dark years after my mother's lunacy crashed through our lives like giant waves. I stub out my cigarette; I drain my glass; I stir in my seat; I scratch my a*s. The barman leans closer; I order more booze and light a smoke; some fellows nearby stare and joke; I look away, gaze at the door for Stanton to come. The cool jazz has stopped; the air is filled with swirling smoke and the dull voice's hum.