A Chance Encounter

Would you like to smoke some pot, Berserker
My love for you is ticking clock, Berserker
Would you like to suck my cock, Berserker
Would you like some making fuck, Berserker

-- Love Among Freaks, Beserker.

"Did someone say luvah?" whispered Low, the buttons of his cardigan dragging through the smut laden bottom half of the local entertainment weekly, as he bent forward to get a better look at his horoscope. Yes, a chance encounter with a potential lover this evening. Glancing up to face the empty room, he announced that, "the cognac was lovely!" and drew another whiff from his Christmas pipe. Then he proceeded to pace the floor, in his underwear and slippers.

But who? Low laid out a timeline, deciding that anything that happened between 3 to 9pm could easily count as evening. He replayed the hours in his mind. Was it the older woman in the park, shortly after dinner, watching her kids from a far enough distance so they wouldn't see her chain smoking herself to death on the wooden bench while they played. She eyed him as he strolled through the park, impeccable slacks, last weeks newspaper under his arm. She wanted him, he could tell, as he looked at her six hole Wal-Mart lace ups. Perhaps it was the email he received at 6:46pm from a woman who played polka on her accordion and collected the hearts of many on a thin red string. Pondering his next move, like that of a chess player about to be mated, Low decided to do nothing. Then there was the woman who emailed him, just before leaving work, Low hadn't heard from her since she left for Seattle 14 days ago. He had a collection of pictures of her in various states of undress to tide him over until she got back. But she said she would only be gone three days. And Low, knowing he was the underdog in the whole affair, realized that he would have to cut her loose, for he swore that he would never be hurt again. But here was an email, well within his definition of evening, pleading his whereabouts. His brow began to sweat as he imagined himself fucking her. Was he doing the right thing?

Unfashionably, Low refilled his glass with cognac to the rim, as he realized he lacked the panache to deal with any of this. Each sip from the white mug with the fading Dunkin Donuts script, yielded a burning sensation as the heavy vapours were exhaled through the nose. Low began to drink quicker, inhaling, sipping, exhaling, and then sipping again. By the time the glass was finished, he had begun to hyperventilate. Arching his back and ripping the Christmas pipe from his mouth he gripped the edges of the newspaper in a panic. He threw the empty mug down, grabbed the bottle, and began to pour it down his throat. Overflowing his mouth, the cognac spilled down his cheeks, onto his cardigan, and all over the transvestites featured in the back pages of the newspaper he had just been reading. Pulling the cardigan from his shoulders, like it was restraining him in some way, Low announced once again, this time in a drunken mumble, that the cognac was lovely, and crashed to the floor. It was 8:59pm.