"Spirits"

She mixes a good drink. I line the bottles up on the bar, tallest to shortest, like I did that very first night in this apartment. The glass gets five ice cubes--consistency, ritual. Are witch doctors so precise? I have to be, because unlike a shaman shaking rattles around a fire, I lack the soul to run by feeling alone. I have no tradition of this. Just the remembrance of that first night, and all its recreations thereafter.

I pull off my tie; cross the room; touch the needle to the record; recline on the sofa with a week-weary arm tossed over my eyes. Sure, I have an iPod, but she doesn't like that. I tried it, on the third week, and she stayed away. Or stayed quiet. I suspect she never actually leaves.

My eyes close under the spell of Nina Simone singing "Wild Is The Wind." Halfway through the song I smell a now-familiar perfume, faintly, almost a timid scent. I keep my eyes covered, a game of hide and seek. When the song reaches its climax I open my eyes and the glass is full, the bottles slightly emptier than before. On the second week, I had peeked early, peering through laced eyelashes, and the bottles never moved. The glass simply filled, slow like honey.

The song ends. Her perfume grows stronger, and then more—an accompaniment rises, notes of real human flesh, suggestions of breath. An invisible hand on my cheek. I go to the bar, stand there and drink, and feel the kisses along my jaw, the nape of my neck. A warm arm snakes around my waist, holds me upright. She tips the glass higher, coaxes every last drop, and briefly the ice clinks to rest on my lips.

I setup a different assortment of bottles, place a fresh tumbler on a dry paper napkin. Lie down again. We do this all evening, all Friday night. "Wild Is The Wind" over and over and over. As each drink settles into me the room gets dimmer; the light from the lamps turns softer; objects once solid grow more malleable. I begin to see the outline of her, the long hair, the slink of a dress; and through it, beneath it, loose limbs that move like honey.

Every weekend I go another shade further. I believe tonight I will stumble into the bedroom after three easy, holding onto the nearly-tangible. There will be eyes of colorless glass searching my own. My sheets will conform to the curves of her hard thighs, will resist her small breasts, will belie the whole sweet volume of her. I will wonder, as always, why the lottery of fates has placed me on this floor, in this apartment, at this time. I will be ready for her to love me—or at least whisper a name. I will play this drowning game.

And then I will blackout.