Sour Licorice

         Annie’s apartment churned with fantatical creatures; evil dukes with curled mustachios, steel masks held at arms-length, only concealing their faces when they made eye-contact; elves and numphs, their features highlighted in green and sparkles, crowns of twisted branches and flowers on their heads. Two were Shotgunning beer cans. A human-sized mouse, his tail over his arm like a cane, or a waiter’s towel. He sipped a martini. The relative normalness of Annie’s costume made her stand out.          She was dressed as a French maitre’d’; a black tuxedo, jacket complete with tails, winged collar and bowtie. A falso mustache was pasted to her upper lip. It was brown, the colour of her hair, but a slightly different shade.

         She was reclining on her couch; the arm was her backrest. She drank from a large mason jar filled with golden beer. People were clustered around her. It was her party and she was a good hostess and entertained with her witty conversation. Paul couldn’t hear her, but as she concluded an anecdote, she lost herself in a fit of laughter. Her audience laughed as well.

         Every person and creature present gorged themselves on food and drink. Broken mason jars, puddles of separated cream, beer and gin, crumbs from cake and savoury tarts littered the floor. A minotaur held a shank from a roast pig in his hand, and fed it to his second, human, head, located beneath his monstrous bearded chin. Mozart, in an embroidered frock coat, pwdered curls and knickers, shredded a Les Paul, acapella, in the corner on a small practice amp. It was all treble and very messy.

         Paul stood in a corner, his own jar filled with whiskey. He stared intently at Annie’s legs.

         Paul’s own costume was apt. He was an unhappy clown. Originally he had planned on coming as just a regular clown, but he didn’t think h could maintain the facade of a silly, carefree entertainer, so he drew some tears in bright blue on his cheek, smeared some thick, gaudy red paint over his frown, and he was ready.

         Her legs were concealed by her black trousers, but he looked at their shape through the cloth. He nurtured memories of them. In the summer, she wore dresses. Sitting around in this room, on the couch where she sits now, having conversation and massive mugs of licorice tea. Annie talked and Paul listened. He met her eyes while she told a story about her coworkers or her neighbours, and when she averted her eyes upward, just for a change of scenery, Paul’s eyes went downward and he brushed them over her limbs. They were white, large-boned and smooth.

         Paul wanted to touch her legs. He ran his left thumb over his fingertips and his palms sweated a little. It would feel nice. He wondered if his touch would feel good to her. His hands were rough and his fingertips were calloused.

         He had kissed her once. They were hanging out on that very couch, just them. Paul told her he knew how to read palms. He didn’t have much game, but that was one that he had and it worked well.

         Annie offered him her left hand. She would be famous. She would be married, with no children. Her life would be short, but eventful. He brushed the back of her left hand with his fingers. He ran his thumb along her lines, appearing to concentrate on her future, but his heart was beating into his ears. He looked up at her, and leaned forward. She leapt forward and completed his intended action.

         It was great. It wasn’t wet or slobbery. It just felt nice. She tasted like licorice. Warm, slightly sour taste of her saliva. It tasted of her, not mint or toothpaste.



         Back in real life, Paul realized that he was almost spilling his whiskey onto the carpet, and that his mouth hung agape, with a touch of drool spilling out of the corner. It happened when he lost himself in his memories. He corrected his jar and wiped the spittle away.

         Paul heard Annie laugh again. It bothered him. He wanted to make her laugh. His eyes stung, and his armpits itched. He felt that he was projecting sadness and he wanted to get away from the other guests. He began weaving his way through the crowd, trying to get to the bathroom. The creatures were oblivious to him, he had to shove in order to make his way. Every step was accented by the crunch of broken glass or the soft squelch of half-eaten food.

         The washroom was unoccupied. He switched on the light and locked the door before dropping his pants to sit on the toilet. He put his head between his legs. He wanted to cry. He wanted to hug someone. He wanted to get drunk, but he dind’t want to get sick. He went over the kiss again in his head. He dig his nails into his palm.

         As he washed his hands, Paul noticed Annie’s toothbrush on the countertop next to the sink. It was transparent red, the brush was curled from use, and the blue streak was faded. It was old, it had been used far beyond the six-month recommended period.

         Paul held it to his nose and sniffed it. It smelled vaguely of plastic and sort of had a spicey sharpness to it. He licked it. He couldn’t detect anything further. He placed the brush in his mouth, and ran it along his molars. He tasted it like a glass of wine, breathing slowly in and out, trying to detect Annie’s aftertaste. Nothing. He rubbed it against his tongue. Still nothing. None of Annie’s licorice, or the warm sour of her saliva.

         There was a knock on the door.

         “Paul, are you okay?” It was Annie. “You’ve been in there forever.”

         Brush in hand, Paul unlocked and opened the bathroom door. Annie stood there. She gave him a funny look.

         “What are you doing with my toothbrush?” she asked. “Were you brushing your teeth?”

         Paul dropped the brush and grabbed Annie by the back of her head. He pressed his face onto hers, his lips sought hers. She attempted to twist away. She was unsuccessful. Paul inserted his tongue into her mouth. He burrowed into her mouth, as foolhardy and persistent as a Jack Russell seeking a rat. Annie clenched her teeth. Paul probed her pearly whites, seeking an opening, seeking her flavour. Nothing. He tried prying her mouth open with hands when he was grabbed rougly by the mouse and the minotaur.

         “What the fuck, Paul?” Annie spat and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.