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The Reader

George Gad Economou

“you know,” she said from my desk,
while I sat on bed with a glass of
bourbon in my hand, “you could
“write something more cheerful.”
“what good would that do?” I asked
in my ferocious hangover.
“might make the stories less gloomy, less...
“less heart-clasping.”

“it’s the effect I’m going for,” I retorted,
downed the bourbon.

I had a good hit straight from the bottle standing
on the window sill above the bed.

“why do you write only
“about sex, drugs, and blackout nights?”
“it’s what I know.”
“so, the stories are real?” she shrilled.

I didn’t respond.
I just drank
(perhaps to prove a point,
but, most importantly, to kill the hangover).

I had met her a few days ago
in the bar.
for some fucking reason,
I told her I’m a writer.
I guess, I tell everyone that
few drinks into the night.

the look she gave me
told the whole story;
she had been fascinated,
because she didn’t know
what I write.

it’s alright;
the story never truly changes much.

they see me wild-haired, long-bearded,
wearing rags, drinking extensively.
they think me a mad new Kafka.

they don’t see the reality behind the words,
the sacristy of the junk-fueled lines.

even when I’m sober
I feel high, because of the fading memories
and years lost in mist-covered jungles.

“do you want coffee?” she got up,
brewed some.
I had bourbon, I was fine.

a bluebird got maimed right under the window, as
three fat, domesticated cats remembered
their wild instincts.

I drained half the bottle,
got up and
staggered my way to the kitchen,
where she
smoked a cigarette while waiting for
my old coffee-maker to brew
two lousy cups.

I kissed her; she wasn’t as
responsive as the previous two nights.

she had found the poems on my computer
while she read the news online during my being blackout
asleep.

she read them; I never asked her to.
she saw things that terrified her;
not the first, nor the last.

I drank some more,
she poured two cups of coffee,
gave me one.

I poured some bourbon in mine.

“anything I should know?” she asked,
when we both sat on my worn-out blue couch.

“I don’t hide any actual skeletons in my closet,” I said,
dead-serious.
I reached down under the coffee table,
produced a bag of good hash.
rolled a fat one.
lit it.

“they are real,” she remarked.
“sure,” I shrugged my shoulders,
having no clue what she was talking about.

she left a few hours later;
never called, never came back.

I cracked the second bottle of the day,
had a good snort. felt slightly more alive.

one day, I’ll date a cop
and spend the rest of my days
in a tiny prison cell.

till then,
I’ll just do my thing;
staying alive by numbing the body
and keeping the soul awake.

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