Morphine and Mimosas

Morphine and Mimosas

The Angel

         There I was at the Nancy Whiskey, a dive in Denver, lined up and perched next to old, hunchbacked, bird-like men with their bloated bellies pressed against the bar. Ravenesque, they were, with black, greedy eyes darting between their empty shot glasses and the liquor bottles winking like tawdry beads and baubles along dusty, glass shelves. The light glaring through the grillwork of the north and west facing windows hinted at the cyan tint of the heavy glass underneath its raiment of dirt. The systemic rays then reflected off the ancient, scarred and tarnished copper counter. Behind that barrier with the booze was the The Englishman, The Enabler, The Angel, pouring us our ritualistic end-of-the-day drinks. Heavenly he was, with his fair body, his fair cheek and chin and lips. A mouth I wanted to kiss until our lips, teeth and tongues bled; however he had fashioned himself a failsafe with a bevy of warmongering women. I thought to myself, "Be wary of the pie those whores are selling, cause the sickness comes for free."

         "So where is that Ruski-bitch-whore of yours?" I asked the Angel, knowing full-well she would not keep company at the Nance with the day crowd.
         
         He just smiled at me; he'd heard those words many times before. 

         "She's not really mine," he said, losing the smile.

         "Just as you are no longer mine." 

         He looked me in the eye and raised his glass, I did likewise. 

         "Achtung," he declared as we downed our drinks, thus ending a conversation neither wanted to pursue.
         
         The molting men near me hacked and coughed deep in their phlegmy throats, signaling to him their need of another slug. As my Angel finished pouring the last round he would be serving that day for pay, he said, "Fuck it," and set us up with another cup of potation.
         
         "Are you trying to kill me with thirst-quenching kindness?" I asked.
         
         "I've already killed you, haven't I?" he allowed. 

         He was heavy with his guilt and I should have let him carry the weight of it on his own; I still loved him too much to let him suffer alone.