The Stars, They Are Unique

*****Second Place Winner Mutant 750 #35*****

“The stars, they are unique
They illuminate my inner soul
As I think
Why did I have that last drink?”

    I repeated those words, feeling the air of them brush over my lips, as I moved my charred hands over the patch of ryegrass I’d found myself in. The art museum was the last building I was in before being tossed like a pile of laundry into the back of a van. I remember talking to a redheaded girl about the The Beloved. The gallery was featuring a Dante Gabriel Rossetti collection of paintings. I definitely didn’t give a shit. I just wanted to get laid. Don’t tell me—that was my mistake.


    It was the slit in the girl’s dark red dress that had me smitten. It revealed a smooth, tan leg, but the entertainment didn’t last long. She covered it as soon as I saw it.
    “I think the exhibit is on the wall, but I appreciate the compliment,” she said.  
     I swallowed my ego and gave the smile that has gotten me out of several of these awkward encounters before, but I could tell right away that she wasn’t buying it.  I countered her with the opening line of an unfinished poem I had been working on for ages, “The stars, they are unique. They illuminate my inner soul as I think ‘Why did I have that last drink?’” Finding a second stanza had been my white whale.
   The redheaded girl stifled a laugh, “Very odd opening line, Bukowski.”
   “We can’t choose the moment when the words arrive. As writers, it’s just our job to write them down when they do.”
   “That’s a little better.” She held her focus on the painting, “Can you imagine a more powerful statement than the one this painting makes? These women are so beautiful. The power of each one is unyielding. What do you think?”
    I was already on strike two, so it was imperative that I didn’t blow this, “It’s a wonderful painting. I would like to speak for the whole of the male species in saying that all women are beautiful. In my humble opinion, I believe the power of that is captured in this painting. Some scholars might even agree with me.”       “Google or Wikipedia?” she quipped.
    “Bing, if you’d believe it,” I reached out a hand, “I’m Charles.”
    “Charles? Lord, I should have guessed.”
     She raised her wrist to a point just under my nose. Her perfume tickled my senses. It smelled sweet and definitely out of my price range. She continued, “Well, Charles Buwkoski, they call me Chanel.” She pulled me in close, grasping her hand firmly on my ass. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got to return to my husband. But, if it’ll tide you over until later tonight, you can watch me walk away, slowly?”
     My rebuttal firmly stuck in my throat, I took another sip of my complimentary glass of bourbon as the object of my desire swayed back and forth on her way into my fantasies and away from our conversation. I took a step forward, feeling additional weight in my right pants pocket. It wasn’t there before. I reached in and pulled out a room key and a note, listing an address.

  Reflecting back, I wish it had all stopped there. Unfortunately, the penis wants what it wants. The pale incandescence of the stars was beginning to fade along with the vision in my right eye, crusted over like an overcooked burger patty. I smelled like one too when the two gentlemen had first lit me on fire. The ability to smell went first. It quickly preceded my ability to scream. At least they had the common courtesy to drive me away from civilization first.    
   In my final moments, I could only think of the poem. Sometimes it takes the finality of a couple of dudes pouring gasoline on you to tie up loose ends: 

 “The stars, they are unique
    They illuminate my inner soul
       As I think
         Why did I have that last drink?

 The embers, they are succinct
    They burn out slowly on their precious spot
      As I lie down for my final sleep
        What did it all mean?”