PLEASURE DOME 6/x

~ a kaleidoscope of fiction ~

Nota Bene: Oskar, not Oskar, and anyone else who might feel shy or embarrassed at this juncture, or readers concerned that this report-of-events-occurred is too much, now would be a good time to avert your eyes.

Remember, too: fiction relies on metaphor, intrigue, mood, tension, and all manner of devices literary, sonic, and subliminal to get to the point at hand.

When presented with questions some will inevitably pose, I defer to Isabel Allende: “I am a good listener and a story hunter.”

Vladimir Nabokov, when asked if he followed any of his contemporaries “with great pleasure,” responded: “There are several such writers, but I shall not name them. Anonymous pleasure hurts nobody.”

Please don’t lose track of where we are headed here, My Dear Sweet & Salty Readers.

***

The saucy young blonde had me by the hand.

The barely-there hem of her golden chainmail gown grazed her upper thighs as we strode, strutted, into and through the next room, a whirl, and then toward an adjoining patio.

At the back corner I caught a glimpse of Adina, sitting at a little table decorated with candles, her martini two olives twist, and an ashtray.

She brought her usual American Spirit light blue cigarette to her lips and took a long exhale.

“Here you are,” Adina exclaimed, as if she had been looking for me all night.

“And I see you’ve met Lady A.”

I nodded. Lady A effervesced.

“Sit, sit!” Adina said.

Adina, often shy and even morose, lit up whatever space she chose to set ablaze when she was ON and tonight was such a night.

As I took my place at a chair to Adina’s left, I noticed Lady A stepping out.

“She’ll be back,” Adina said with the knowing confidence of the one giving the night’s instructions.

“Have you seen Irina and Diana,” I asked.

“They’ll make their way to us. Don’t worry about them. Now tell me…” Adina began to set up a long and detailed question, philosophical and possibly a little scatological. She loved to shock. And she worked in a neuroscience lab and had endless strange facts to share.

Sometimes I was not sure if Adina was inventing details, entire plots, and frankly I didn’t care. If I remembered the next day, I would look them up.

Now is now.

But Adina had, in fact, interrupted herself and started to tell me the latest installment of her love woes. She routinely became infatuated with those who did not care to treat her well.

We, Irina and Diana and I, had never met one of these objects of obsessive love in person, though, so even those stories were difficult to assess.

“Sweet Thing, you don’t have a drink!” Adina suddenly took stock of our situation.

“Go, go! And, please, bring me another martini,” she grinned her Cheshire Cat grin.

I left the patio and walked toward the bar, where I found Lady A.

“Let me get you a shot, Mami,” Lady A cooed.

“Yes,” I said.

Lady A stroked my right wrist delicately while we watched the barwoman pour us two shots of tequila in small goblets.