Judas Slouches Through Jerusalem

Dinner was fucked up. My head hurts now. Fresh air isn’t doing shit. Nothing’s

Course, whaddya expect with a bunch of guys, alcohol spilling down their fronts,

rants going on about the ‘meaning of life’, politics, and religion? Someone’s ass

was gonna get kicked out. I get it—I wasn’t as much in the spirit of things.

Least I polished off two bottles.

Bastards aren’t even gonna remember what they said, come morning.

I’ll remember, cuz I didn’t disagree with everything they said. Politicians couldn’t sniff their way to a pisser, let alone lead a nation through a new millennium. Which is surprising in this shit town, considering every back alley and store front has been the recipient of a midnight spray once or twice.

Speaking of:

There are a few guys following me down the street, but they get how bodily functions work and they don’t try to rush me—bum or otherwise, which I appreciate—as I take a leak in a convenient alleyway.

“Come on,” I tell them, pulling some cash out and waving it in front of them. “Party’s on me.”

These guys aren’t my usual style.

Usually I wax philosophical after a drink or two. Contrary to popular belief, philosophy’s about simple things. People try to complicate shit too much. Shit is shit. You squeeze and feel better. Eating’s eating. You chew and swallow. Kissing’s kissing. Lip to lip or skin. This stuff does not require deep contemplation of the stars. It’s simple. Right and wrong. Black and white. Not hard.

The guys behind me are not impressed with the empty house. They were promised action and I better damn well deliver.

No problems, no problems. I go out back.

And there are the guys, sleeping it off. Sleep is so simple. They probably nodded off navel gazing.

Then there’s movement in the back trees. Seems someone else had to heed the call.

When my best bud comes out from the shadows he looks sober—which can’t be right because he’s done way more shit than the rest of us.

I forget about the guys behind me and stagger over.

I spread my arms as wide as my blurry smile. The whole solar system would fit in the expanse of my arms as I fall into him.

He doesn’t smile back as I wrap my arms around him. He’s probably still pissed—but I don’t care because I’m not pissed anymore. So I kiss him.

So simple. My lips feel the brush of his beard—a man’s beard that one. Full of soft hair. His skin is dry against my spittled lips. I smell my own wine-stained breath, then the rush of the night air as he’s pulled away from me.

Jenny Maloney has the husband, the 2.5 kids, the dog, and the cat. She writes to mix it up. Her work has appeared most recently in Shimmer and Skive.  If you want to talk writing (which is really the only thing she ever talks about) please come chat it up at www.placeforthestolen.blogspot.com. 

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