27 July 2007
An empty glass rests on the table's edge.
Miss Texarkana Butler rises to retrieve it.
She has a fat jug of home brew
that she slides slowly towards that edge,
a mathematical progression, topological
convergence, liquid sloshing in the bottle,
her mouth is watering and she wets her lips.
B.B. Butler stands in the doorway, waits a moment
before stretching out those long grasshopper legs,
then strides across the room and takes the glass
the moment she's filled it to the top,
catching her by surprise with his sudden presence.
He takes hold of her arm and she sets down the jug
to save the bottle from breaking,
knowing his temper had broken so many bottles,
shattered so much glass on so many floors before.
She is bigger than he is, in total volume,
arms as wide around as his legs,
and could probably beat him to death with her breasts,
but it isn't worth it, after all the years together,
it isn't worth it.
He looks at her a long time, then drinks.
He drinks until the glass is empty,
sets it back on the edge of the table,
lets go her arm, sticks his hands in his pockets,
and grunts with satisfaction.
Miss Texarkana Butler brews strong moonshine,
and she always did. He smiles.
Their eyes meet. Miss Texarkana Butler does not blink.
He reads the Holy Scriptures in her eyes,
and remembers a time when she was young and he was young
and they would drink together from a single glass.
They would dance and they would laugh.
It wasn't moonshine that made them old,
but the lack of dancing.
He was the first to look away,
turned his bloodshot eyes from her eyes,
struggling to keep his composure,
uncharacteristically leaving the moonshine,
leaving the empty glass for her to fill
and drink alone.
© 2007, Satya J. Gabriel