Strange Taste, Pt 14 - Concoction

He slept on until early afternoon, then lay still, calm, reflecting on his unforgettable night:

Lindsey imbibed a small phial of the concoction he brewed for her in a saucepan at home. The spectacle that she made of herself, dancing naked for him, initiated his arousal. Alyn hoped she pulled through. It was never his intention to hurt Lindsey. He tried to imagine how she felt, having her stomach pumped out in A&E.  

Then, he met Georgie and fell in love with her. He recalled how she played with him on the swing. How tenderly she made love to him. Her kindness, understanding, and love when his immaturity brought their lovemaking to an abrupt end. He came on twice: once inside Georgie, and while she gratified herself, rubbing herself over his thigh, massaging his erect shaft. He listened to her afterwards, making strange noises thru the plasterboard wall: her cries of passion.

Don’t stop! Please! Don’t stop!

He realised he was inadequate as her lover. Moreover, Alyn felt overwhelmed by guilt at how badly he had treated Georgie, his failure to satisfy her, to consummate his love for her. He couldn’t believe she wanted to see him again,

‘Tomorrow night,’ she’d whispered, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night. I love you, Alyn.’

His hand groped around under the hospital-frame bed for his cheap plastic alarm clock. He checked the time: 1pm. He was meant to be at work by 3! His soiled pants were still lying on the rug from last night. He pulled them on and flew downstairs to the kitchen. There were two large aluminium saucepans filled with water on the fat-caked gas cooker. Alyn brought them to the boil then carefully carried them up the stairs to the bathroom. The first pan, he used for a cat’s lick, washing himself from head to toe with a face flannel, the second he used to shave. As soon as he was dry, Alyn sprayed the great smell of Brut under his armpits, tore into his room, threw on a t-shirt, shorts and dirty plimsolls, grabbed his wallet and key, skipped downstairs, through the living room, kitchen and scullery, and went outside.

His back door faced the Munt’s back door. Alyn hated the Munt’s boys with a vengeance. Denis Munt was a boastful show-off who had relished the opportunity to tear off butterfly wings in front of Alyn when they were prepubescent. His brother Bruce had thwacked a cricket ball through the bedroom window four years ago. Alyn couldn’t afford to have the glass replaced. It was covered with cardboard and heavy-duty sticky tape. Thankfully, their back door was closed.

Alyn crossed the crazy-paved patio that his father laid when he was little, sadly overgrown with weeds, passed the raised front lawn, and strode onto the pavement. Cassie, a girl he played hopscotch with as a child, always told him not to step on the cracks. Stepping on the cracks was bad luck. He wondered how she was enjoying her new life in Australia. His thoughts returned to Georgie, the need to satisfy her on his mother’s bed, spending the night wrapped in her arms, her surprise when she awoke in the morning.

Firstly, though, he had to excuse himself from work.