Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (13) - Flipbook - Page 36
TONIGHT'S ENTERTAINMENT
by Jack Barton
After the night we’ve just had I tell him I’m leaving, I want him to stop me. He doesn’t. He
allows my departure. I dress. I hate my crinkled shirt. Unfortunate. It’s unfortunate this never
became anything real. Underneath it all, only ever about pleasure.
We eat breakfast at dinner time. He made me gluten-free pancakes. Organic flour found
online. After the night we’ve just had, no more for me. I get sore. The flour has stuck together,
gritty between my teeth, I can taste it, not mixed enough. He doesn’t get tired; if he wanted to,
he could go all night. I heard him masturbating in the bathroom once, he thought I was asleep.
He hadn’t ejaculated enough for one day. He knew I could hear him, and I fuelled his stroke.
Thank you for doing that in private. He’s got an uncontrollable urge. He was employed to drive
me home, that’s how we met. He liked my dress, said I should be more confident about my
body, that my tits are nice, that I’m too shy. I’m not shy, I just act well, it’s how I move freely
between the acts. I can’t imagine he sees me as someone with a nervous system.
These are good pancakes, I say.
Thanks, he says, I got the flour online, really adds something to the flavour I think.
He laughs, his nostrils flare wider than is natural for humans. He films himself talking about
the pancakes, I’ll be eating these gluten-free pancakes every day. He posts the video online to
all of his gluten-free followers. Grain-free and loving life.
I recognise his paintings from hotels I’ve stayed in. Blue flowers blooming in springtime by
Larry Yenkal. I look it up on my phone. The original blue flowers are in a small, independently
owned gallery in Venice famous for flower paintings.
We’re up high; being up high is exciting for one night only. I am now the same height, no
matter how high up we go. Like a plane. Once is enough. Sometimes when I look outside at
the adjacent tower-block, I see a young woman, younger than me, leaning against the window
having some obscured sexual operation performed on her. By a man, no doubt, blank-faced
and standing behind her. I have seen her twice in the same position. She noticed me watching
the second time and began to enjoy herself. I would like to see her smile again, it’s a similar
smile to mine. We are both bonded by what lies behind our lips.
After the night we’ve just had, after we ate bespoke gluten-free pancakes, I tell him I’m
leaving, noting his reaction closely. He smiles, kisses me, grabs my behind: he greets me in a
similar way. I almost tell him I love him. He might show a feel if I'm lucky. Smile, cry, become
angry. I don’t tell him. Too soon - and the age gap is an issue for me. And to the set the record
straight, I don’t love him. I could easily cut open his thumb with the keychain Swiss Army
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