Fiona's floating bed

short fiction

What I wish I could do. What sounds so fucking sweet right now. Is To Fuck Off. Wallow in the wine. Pour without counting ounces. Drink without talking Tasting Notes.

This is how I know I’m an Addict. Because overconsumption is an art to me. It’s an activity. Performance Art. You could say that. To become numb is to sculpt myself. To fall into an angry sea is a dance I do. I know you recognize it. Which is what makes it a painting on the wall.

This activity of Drinking. It’s a skill. You could say that. But I don’t do it anymore. The Drinking. I store it in a drawer in my back bedroom. There’s dust on it. But I do like to read about it. I like to read stories about Women Drinking. From morning to night. They stumble into liquor stores to buy more. Their sloppy eating and cigarettes make me hungry. I want to lather that behavior all over my insides.

These Women Drinking in the stories I read— they make me want to drift off. Into a dream. With clouds and a Floating Bed. Did you watch that movie as a kid? I can’t remember much more than the bed floating. Cartoon kids atop the sheets. I can’t remember much more. Because I don’t want to. Because it would bring me back to a small room shared with Mama. Where she’d push the tape into the player and hit pause on the day.

I was really good at it. Being A Drunk. Omar From The Streets would say, Fiona, you hold yourself well. No wobbling or weary eyes. Just focus. Because, of course, I’m performing. I was only ever The Performance. I’d drown so that I could dance the ocean floor, leave the sky to the birds who’ve learned to fly.

One night. Omar took me to a Downtown Warehouse Party. The streets were damp and the air was only tobacco. Omar wore a heavy leather jacket. He held me by the shoulders. We danced with hands and hips and we lost sight. Omar said, drink this. Omar said, move like that. Omar said, kiss me here. Omar said I held myself well.

That night. Omar took me to his apartment in Echo Park. Where he lived on the front porch. A Floating Bed. We slept like cartoon kids. Soft bodies back to back. Omar held himself well.

What I wish I could do. What sounds so fucking sweet right now. Is To Dance In The Dark. A crowded club. Polluted pub. I’d slide between bodies and sink below loud music. A Large Drink running my throat. Lots of liquor. Over and over. Like it could never hurt me. A maddening pursuit toward ear-humming. Vibrating fingers meddling with my brain. No tomorrow. Only now. Isn’t that what They say?

If I could live like there’s no tomorrow. I’d drown. A warm bath up to my skull. Quiet reverb growing inside a loud room. All the bodies. I’ll take the energy as my own. No effort. Just watching. I’m a roach on the floor. Wallflower. You could say that. Hidden gem. You can find me. I’m at your feet. Just waiting to be seen, not spoken to.

But I don’t do it anymore. The Drinking. I don’t drink but I read about the Women Who Do. And I let them hang around in my mind as I stare at Mama Dying. The drink in her gut doing what it said it would. Turn it all off. Become A Floating Bed.

photo by alyssa brooke