A Galway Epiphany

Quotes of the week

February 24, 2019:

Benjamin and Connie were in bed again, after trysts

In/on.

The hallway.

The front garden.

The kitchen table (shades of The Postman Always Rings Twice).

And Brid sulked, drank, fumed, despaired, and raged.

Smashed furniture, slammed her head into the wall (headbanger?).

Wept.

Oh, wept bitter tears of abandonment.

Connie was oblivious and Benjamin could, if you’ll forgive the pun, give a fuck.

Smoking in a rare moment away from their frenzy, Connie asked,

“Are you rich?”

He told the truth.

“Very.”

She was thrilled, asked,

“How?”

For the second time in years, he told the truth, said,

“I’m a forensic accountant, a financial investigator: I do some very creative shady bookkeeping for extremely shady folk.”

She mulled that over, then,

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

He laughed, said,

“God, I hope so.”

She now flat-out fucking adored him. He asked,

“You like movies?”

Oh, yeah.

He said,

“I liked They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?

She didn’t know it, said,

“Loved it.”

He knew she lied, but so what?

He said,

“I’m working on a new version, They burn horses, don’t they?

She sat up, went,

“Whoa, what?”

He said,

“We have two guys in common who busted our balls.”

When she said nothing, he said,

“The deadbeat drunk Taylor and his sidekick, a psycho biker named Keefer.”

She was very attentive now, said simply,

“And?”

He got out of bed, stretched, said,

“Those assholes hang out on some version of a ranch or farm outside town.”

He turned, stroked her cheek, said,

“At the risk of mutating an American saying, I intend for them to ‘buy the farm.’”

She stroked the long nasty scar all down his right leg, said,

“Count me in, lover.”

He began to dress, carefully, as if it were important.

Perhaps it was.

He reached in his jacket, took out a long match, handed it to her.

She said,

“Lemme guess: We’re a match.”

An almost satanic look flitted briefly across his face, then was gone.

But

She’d seen it.

As the saying goes,

“Once seen!”

She was Californian, knew her satanic shit, knew it close.

He asked,

“Know what that is?”

Fuck, she thought, this is thin ice, tried,

“A long match.”

He snarled,

“Don’t be frivolous.”

She was just a wee bit afraid but she knew she could break his neck fast; being a prison chaplain has its perks. Letting a trace of edge leak over her own tone, she said,

“It’s a fucking long wooden match, with a red tip.”

She nearly added,

And how drearily phallic.

But bit down.

The guy had cash so she could play it a little, said,

“It’s your calling card.”

Bingo.

He planted a wet kiss on her cheek.

Downstairs, Brid, listening, wearing a T with the hashtag, “MeatToo.”

Spat.

Twice.