WORKS OF ART is an exercise in serial flash fiction, as part of Declaration Editing’s Super-Short Summer Serial Challenge (S4C). Part four, Balling, Din, pt. 1, is below.
“Balling, Din – pt. 1″
The Din had a carnal darkness to it tonight. Too much flesh and smoke and sweat in too little space. Syl tasted it, smelled it before she got inside. Felt the buzz and gush just above the naval, the shock that rode up the nape of her neck. No name for it, just a body sensation.
When she made it to the bar she leaned far over the top and ordered a double whisky, flashed eyes that matched the feel of the place.
“Nice to see all of you again,” the bartender said. He grinned, ran his glare from her eyes to nose, chin to breasts. Syl didn’t mind letting her favorites stare at whatever part of her they wanted.
“Hell of a night,” she mouthed.
“It’s always hell down here,” he said.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I bet that’s the first time you’ve ever said that.” He winked, served the drink and told her it was him. Syl left a $5 on the bar anyway.
A band of four large, shirtless men in wrestler masks had wedged themselves and their gear onto a tiny stage toward the room’s back end. The Flying So and So’s, all speed surf rock and grit. Syl didn’t mind – noise was noise down here. She dug around her purse, came up with a vile and swallowed another half milligram of Alprazolam to top off what she’d taken earlier.
She darted her eyes around until they landed on Blo, sandwiched at a table amongst four co-eds half his age. Syl didn’t know why she kept going back to him. Another bad habit, worse than marriage by now.
“Where the hell have you been?” she yelled just loud enough to almost be heard.
“Sit down, baby – look, this one right here,” he pointed a finger with his drinking hand. A girl with white and red streaked hair flashed a toothy smile. “She’s into that M&M shit you like.”
“You’re an asshole,” Syl said. “And it’s S&M.”
“Same thing.” He looked at the girl and gestured with his lighter. She laughed.
“She likes the flame like you,” Blo said, then flicked his lighter near Syl’s breasts. “Those hot nipple tricks.”
Syl reached back and slapped him hard across the face. A sudden reaction without thought. A few people turned to look – the rest were too lost in the bar’s noise to hear. They watched the band’s masked faces bounce back and forth.
Blo grabbed Syl’s wrist.
“I told you last time I’d hit you back.”
“Go ahead, Taco, and I’ll send you back to Guadeloupe.”