He remembered. Even as the cats finished off the mouse so that finally it was dead as it was sliding along the linoleum, he got hungry and horny, in that order. All the little microscopic dots danced before his eyes, not dinosaurs or anything else. Just dots. He felt antsy, not quite pins and needles but not not pins and needles either.
He was wearing skivvies and his t-shirt. The t-shirt covered the red lipstick lips Annabelle had left on his chest.
She was still wearing the high heels and his shirt which she’d buttoned.
The kitchen table, before which the cats were batting that dead mouse, was covered with stuff. They had weed, hash, all the things to smoke it with. There were Quaaludes and Black Beauties and even more acid if anyone were so inclined. The only one who would be so inclined was Jack’s boyfriend Rell who had been tripping for more than a year straight. His brain was totally fried.
Later in Bill’s life that commercial would come out with the eggs getting fried and the slogan after the egg was fried: this is your brain on drugs.
That was Rell’s brain. Trip 57, mescaline. Trip 106, mushrooms.
Yeah.
He couldn’t help himself. He was roused. Annabelle had done it to him. She’d painted those lips again so they were thick red. And there were her lovely legs covered only by the tails of his shirt. And her feet, toenails long and painted, also red.
He stepped up behind her as she mixed the mayonnaise in with the tuna, smashing it together, smooshing it. Not like his father’s tuna with the vinegar and onions. Not like Mrs. Jones’ tuna, but maybe close.
Young, stupid and able. The zillions of dots danced before his eyes. The cats slid the dead mouse across the kitchen. The fork clacked against the porcelain bowl she was using to hold the tuna. As he pushed on her, her ass shook against him from her motions with the fork.
He enjoyed the sensations of it all momentarily. She leaned forward a touch so he pressed her in the spot she wanted.
Trying not to move, he reached for the Quaaludes. They were so far away, but if he pushed harder into her, tighter, even though they were both partially clad, he could just…
He reached around her face and popped a pill into her lips. She ate it and sucked his fingers. He popped a pill for himself.
Then the wine.
“Jesus, that thing’s dead,” Annabelle said.
Bill heard her words clearly. He’d had that thought himself.
“Ya think?” the cat with the sunglasses said.
“I’m dead,” the mouse said. “Look what they done to me, ma.”
Bill dropped to his knees. He leaned over, not to pick up the dead mouse. It was dead and he was with Annabelle who had luscious fingers and toes and pert little tits. He bent all the way down, almost to the floor and kissed the heels of her feet which were right there for him in those high-heel mules.
“Creamy,” Annabelle said.
He kissed and licked each heel, then kissed and licked all the way up both legs, alternating, taking his time.
Annabelle was finished with the tuna. She was swooning slightly, balancing herself with the aid of the table.
Dusk was falling outside. Rell, Jack and Tim had disappeared into a bedroom, had not come out for anything. The music had long ago stopped.
Everyone was making their own music.
“How many shrimp you gonna eat?” Bea asked.
“Bout as many as a whale,” Bill said. He could see the horseradish pieces, little tiny specs in the red cocktail shrimp.
They were standing next to each other on her station kind of right up against her working shelf, the shelf where she set up the salads, did her cutting and all that. Just for fun, and maybe to piss Mary off, she reached down to him, slid her hand between him and her shelf.
By Peter Weiss
and
Coming in a few weeks
