Literary Fiction
by Lord Malinov

The sun was beginning to set in orange and grey so I sat down on my sofa and rolled a big fat joint, too huge for one but forgetting was my plan and excess is a proven path to amnesia. The week had been rough and I wanted to soar away from here, from now, from every project and responsibility and uncertain fear that worked me over like a task master. Friday was spent unfortunately and predictably alone but I wouldn’t remember any of it.

The doobie started too thick and came out in a jumbled mess of herb and pasted paper but once I set fire to the scruff and sucked on the end, there was no one to complain of my imperfect rolling. It burned a little crooked, a bit faster on end side than the other, creating an awkward scoop of crisped hemp and hemp but I didn’t care. I drew the smoke and nothing else mattered, for once, finally.

All was right in the world except that I was alone. I wouldn’t have been alone of Tarn hadn’t left me a few weeks before. We had been seeing each other for a few months and I was surprised to find that I liked the way things were going. And with that thought, there seemed to be a developing distance in her presence. She grew impatient with me, found fault at every turn. I could see it coming. Then she was gone.

And isn’t that just the way these things go. Every relationship starts with hope and day by day, the details fill in and then I find that she wasn’t what I thought at all.

There was Bece, who told me she was leaving as we walked home in the rain, in the clattering grey of an evening that had gone on too long, probably as she procrastinated the news that she was moving, heading west and soon. It wasn’t a perfect coupling; it wasn’t even great. But we never had a chance to see where it could lead. She didn’t even promise to write.

Anki just wanted to have sex all the time. It sounds great, I know, and for a while, it was. She seemed like a great person but she was on all the time. That’s probably not true. She was on all the time when she was with me. No one could live every moment of every day so endlessly sexually. When we’d go out, to a restaurant or a show, she would flash her nipple or butt or even the curly shadows of her cunt. Which was fun, if a little nerve wracking when I thought she was being too incautious with her public pubic displays which was often. She talked sex constantly, everywhere we were, everywhere we went, the more inappropriate the better. At home, forget about it.

It’s not that easy to forget.

Laet lived a regimented life, too disciplined for me which I could forgive but she couldn’t. I couldn’t conform to her schedule and she couldn’t accept that I couldn’t. So it goes.

Rinle and I seemed a perfect match, easy going and compatible on every axis I could think to consider. We spent a lot of time together, did a lot of things, had a lot of fun. We had everything, it seemed, but passion. Even so, with everything going so well, it seemed nonsense to go another way. So we stayed together for a long time, too long. We were like an old married couple who skipped right past the honeymoon. I don’t know if it were Rinle or me, but we tore apart suddenly, quietly, just one day now you see it now you don’t.

The burn pattern self-corrected and I found myself drowning in thick grey clouds of smoldering reefer.

Still, I didn’t forget.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, cannabis, fiction, literature, personal, reading, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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