TEASING IN THE LIGHT
That night, oh, boy, what a
night, it had all seemed like a dream, a
dream made real on a night of worm-induced tequila madness at the Saint Mark’s
bar as Melody fell into Jack’s warm embrace for the first time and, at last,
Jack had something to live for beyond his crappy little job and his shitty
little room as he had her.
From the very first moment he
had said “hi,” it had all moved so
quickly. Within a week, he’d practically moved in; that first week, that
magical time of never-ending pleasure, went by in a flurry of sexual adventure
and they’d barely left her room, their boudoir of delight, and Jack couldn’t
remember the last time he’d felt happier.
She told him everything and
he did the same, and when he admitted he
loved being teased, she took that as a personal challenge.
The next night, Jack returned
from work and there she was, stood in
front of their floor lamp gyrating to some wild ‘60s song wearing a dress
almost transparent. She looked astonishing, or at least that’s what he thought,
as he began salivating before moving in tight and taking her in his arms.
They went to bed and made love
like they’d never done before, with
feeling, with soul, but most of all with love and again Jack fell asleep
dreaming of a life that he was currently living.
Again, he couldn’t remember
a time when he’d been happier; hell, not in
this lifetime anyway, and the next morning she went off to work and he simply
sat around getting high and watching daytime TV.
That afternoon when Melody had
returned from work Jack was so high, he
barely noticed as she changed into a pair of her darkest jeans and a long baggy
jumper that showed off absolutely nothing at all but as the evening came into
view she turned to him.
“Jack,” she says,
making sure he’s firmly back on terra firma after his
intergalactic odyssey, “Jack, I’ve got something I need to do with work tonight.
. . .”
“Oh sure,” he responds,
not having any idea that this, well, this was to
be the end of the happy life, at least his.
She started going out and a
lot as well and soon Jack is sat in the
armchair in their living room, struggling to remember the last time he’d seen
her until, at last, he hears the shuffling of a key in the lock.
“Oh, Jack,” she
says, as she stumbles into the living room with a new
friend in tow, “Oh, Jack . . .” she says unwilling, or possibly unable due to
drink, to complete her sentence.
“Look,” the other
woman suddenly says, “we’re in love, me and Mel is
where it’s at now, you get it? Good,” she says before he even has a chance to
respond, “well, you know what to do then, don’t you?”
“But . . .”
“No buts, fucker, just
get the hell out of here . . . understand me?”
“Mel???” he drawls,
wishing he could sit and roll another big fat joint
as tears begin to pour from his eyes.
“Ah, now, come on man,
get with it,” she says, as she begins throwing
some of his clothes into a bag.
Melody simply ignores what is
going on and disappears into the bedroom
and before her head even hits the pillow, Jack is out on the street and that
first raindrop sobers him up better than anything had done in years.
Middleton lives in Brighton on the UK’s southeast coast. He was born in
London during the long hot summer of 1971 and growing up on a council estate
and attending the local school, he learnt two things; if he didn’t kick back
he’d never get anywhere in this life, merely becoming another cog in the wheel,
and has been kicking against those pricks his entire
life. He began writing when he arrived
in Brighton in the early years of the new century and began reading his poems
to often stunned and confused onlookers until one day Mad Swirl asked to
publish one of his poems. He’s had four chapbooks published since then and has
hundreds of poems dotted all over the internet. His work has featured in
the Chiron Review, Evening Street Review, New Reader Magazine,
Paper & Ink Lit Zine, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Razur Cuts,
amongst other places including, of course, Yellow Mama. Follow him
on Twitter @BradfordMiddle5.