Madeline
un
“Did I ever tell you about Madeline?” I cleared my throat, turning cautiously in the barstool to my friend Cromwell. I snuffed out the midget of a cigarette in the bar’s ashtray. I was getting too old for the bar scene, but Cromwell assured us we weren’t. He was a true Englishman; I was just an aging fart that had seen too much for one lifetime.
“No, you didn’t mention Madeline. If I recall correctly, you got quite sore when I mentioned her.” Cromwell was a testy fellow, a real peach, not a fresh peach anymore, but rather, a peach that had been left to rot to a satiable mush on the counter. “Madeline, the good Christian girl.” Cromwell chuckled heartily, diverting his attention to the floor in order to avoid eye contact with my brooding remembrance of Madeline, oh Madeline…
“Bloody good, that’s what she was.”
“Well, are you going to tell me about this elusive Madeline?” Cromwell took a sip of the iced scotch in the cut crystal tumbler. The little sunbursts etched into the glass reflected the colored light from the Tiffany-esque stained glass lights that hung above the mahogany bar. I took a survey of the bar, what a rickety place it was with the outdated wood paneling and off-white and scuffed black checkerboard floor. It reeked of tobacco, cheap beer, and musky, floral perfume that emitted from one woman near the dart board. She was too old to be here, much like Cromwell and myself. Several men were littered around, but it was only Cromwell, the bored bartender that was eyeing the rugby game from his perch on the back counter, and I in the back corner of the bar.
And somehow, I felt alone with these twenty odd lost souls.
“I will, just let me collect my thoughts.” I frowned, taking the Marlboros from the back pocket of my pants and withdrawing yet another cancer stick. So much for quitting. “Can you give me a light?”
“No, you didn’t mention Madeline. If I recall correctly, you got quite sore when I mentioned her.” Cromwell was a testy fellow, a real peach, not a fresh peach anymore, but rather, a peach that had been left to rot to a satiable mush on the counter. “Madeline, the good Christian girl.” Cromwell chuckled heartily, diverting his attention to the floor in order to avoid eye contact with my brooding remembrance of Madeline, oh Madeline…
“Bloody good, that’s what she was.”
“Well, are you going to tell me about this elusive Madeline?” Cromwell took a sip of the iced scotch in the cut crystal tumbler. The little sunbursts etched into the glass reflected the colored light from the Tiffany-esque stained glass lights that hung above the mahogany bar. I took a survey of the bar, what a rickety place it was with the outdated wood paneling and off-white and scuffed black checkerboard floor. It reeked of tobacco, cheap beer, and musky, floral perfume that emitted from one woman near the dart board. She was too old to be here, much like Cromwell and myself. Several men were littered around, but it was only Cromwell, the bored bartender that was eyeing the rugby game from his perch on the back counter, and I in the back corner of the bar.
And somehow, I felt alone with these twenty odd lost souls.
“I will, just let me collect my thoughts.” I frowned, taking the Marlboros from the back pocket of my pants and withdrawing yet another cancer stick. So much for quitting. “Can you give me a light?”
♠ ♠ ♠
ohhohoh