THREE BEERS AND TWO JOINTS

by
Ben Ashwell

Georgia dragged her matted brown hair across my chest as she rolled off me; letting out a small sigh of what I�d like to think was ecstasy.

She lit a joint and turned on the radio, while I tried to remember what had just happened. We�d shared another two crates of beer and fallen into bed together. I closed my eyes and imagined myself as a kid, laying upside down on a swing and letting the world spin above and beneath me. I was interrupted by the joint Georgia was sliding between my parted lips.

�I�m leaving Joe. I�m going away�.

I�ve tried to recall the tone she said this in but to be honest I was concentrating more on not letting the bed slide out from underneath me than I was on what she was saying.

�Sounds good. Just don�t forget to write�.

�No, I�m serious. My Dad�s sick and I�m going to visit. I don�t know when I�ll be back�.

She normally pissed about when we got stoned. I was too fucked to put up with it.

�When do you leave?�

�Tomorrow�, she said in the same way she had sighed earlier, turning away to keep the answer to herself.

�Well shit girl, you�d better pack�, I said, not caring much for how morbid she�d become. �Why the fuck are we lying in bed?�

I leaped up and found a holdall in the wardrobe. I started throwing underwear in. �You�re certainly gonna need lots of underwear honey. I hear hospital plumbing ain�t what it used to be�, I announced, doing my best imitation of an American Casanova, something I certainly wasn�t. I was a skinny English alcoholic whose torso hadn�t seen sunlight in years.

�Come on Joe, I�m being serious. I only found out today�.

I looked across the room and saw the honesty in her passive eyes, lurking somewhere behind her black mascara. I cracked open another beer and slumped back onto the bed. She leaned over and kissed my cheek while I sucked the suds from the top of the beer.

�I wish you�d care a bit more. I�m gonna be gone for a while�.

I realised that her saliva on my cheek was now mixing with her salty tears, thin and black and staining the bed sheets. I cradled her like I cared, not knowing that I actually did.

�I�m sorry baby. What�s wrong with your Dad?�

�He had a stroke, playing golf yesterday. Dropped down right there on the course�, she sniffed, wiping her nose on the duvet beneath us.

�What hospital is he at?� I tried my best to put on an understanding voice but the joint wasn�t sitting too well on top of the beers.

�Central Manchester, in his own private room�.

�You said your parents lived by the sea, in Brighton�. All sympathy drained from my voice. I kept hold of her and I felt the skin on her forehead crease against my arm.

�They moved. A couple weeks ago. That�s probably what the stroke�s about.�

She pulled her face up and leaned in to kiss me. Our lips met and I felt her passion like a vice. I didn�t move my mouth, even when her tongue licked my teeth.

�I wish�I didn�t have to�� I waited with baited breath for her to stop kissing me and finish her sentence. �Go�.

I turned my mouth away from hers and let her kiss my neck.

�You�re not coming back�, I exhaled, rather than spoke. She stopped kissing me and looked at my eyes. I didn�t turn to face her, knowing that all I�d see was the same passive look as before; the look I�d confused for honesty.

She turned over and drifted off to sleep, quicker than I was able to get out of the bed. I sat up and listened to her breathing, trying to soak it in. There was no point in waking her, or even shouting. She was leaving tomorrow whatever I did.

The radio was playing white noise and the beer tasted like metal. I drank it anyway and smoked all the weed we had left between us. The only thing I could take from her: three beers and two joints.

The last thing I remember was seeing the time. It was 4.48am.

� Ben Ashwell
Reproduced with permission