December 28, 2014 by petrujviljoen
Cheap tinsel, cheap words, cheep cheep, mock joss sticks the air thick with nothing. Nearly hurling in the stupid, dense, determinedly sweet bunched arrangement of empty people. Idlers, the lot of them employed, nonetheless. She wasn’t.
She left the party having mouthed words, mock sounds in answer to a statement she didn’t hear from a person she’s never seen before. And been accepted. Leaving, her red hair nearly got caught in the mistletoe, nearly got cornered; where you going bitch? Humping your bluesy are you? Swiping a bottle of absinthe on the way out, from here on in, she got told, things will get sweeter, when she first arrived.
Some romantic notion of finding herself. Moonlight, the beach, the crows in the oak at the edge of the garden. She knew the oak, knew the crows. Knew the beach was just beyond. Knew how to get there without stumbling. She knew the people she knew would join the party fashionably later.
What she didn’t know was that there was a riptide.
The first wave tumbled her. God in Her mercy reminded: swim parallel to the beach! Drunk as she was she heard and did. And passed out when she reached the oak where she left the half empty, half full bottle of absinthe with her bag and shoes, woke up, later, just as the imago emerged from the nutgall.