Free Kissing Through a Pane of Glass by Peter Michael Rosenberg Page A

than everyone else. More experience, more love, more care, more laughter, more pain. I wanted excess. I wanted not just to do everything, but to overdo everything. I wanted bright colours, strong flavours, pungent smells, loud music. I wanted my heart to beat faster. I wanted more respect than everyone else, more pleasure, more beauty. I never questioned whether or not I deserved it; I just knew that I had to have it, that it was necessary for my survival, essential for my well-being.
     
    Perhaps that is why, when the most beautiful woman in the world walked into my life and introduced me to the sensation of euphoria, I did not ask too many questions about whether I was deserving or not. It was what I wanted, what I needed, and that was all that really mattered.
     

Chapter 18
     
    From the depths of her backpack, Liana produced a full bottle of Courvoisier.
     
    ‘Where have you been hiding that?’
     
    She smiled mischievously. ‘I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.’
     
    ‘And is this a special occasion?’
     
    ‘I think so. Don’t you?’
     
    ‘My life is a special occasion, since I met you,’ I said. It sounded terribly pretentious, but I felt it with all sincerity.
     
    The only drinking vessels in the room were a pair of rather unlovely glass tumblers. I washed them out as best I could, dried them on Liana’s towel (which I felt was probably cleaner than my own) and returned to the bedroom, where Liana had already lit the candles, taken off her clothes, and wrapped herself in a bright, trans- lucent lungi . She uncorked the cognac, put her nose to the neck of the bottle, and drew deeply on the volatile aromas. Her eyes closed momentarily. She smiled. I held out the glasses and she poured two large measures.
     
    I handed her the less unpleasant of the two tumblers and we raised them to just below eye-level.
     
    ‘What shall we drink to?’ asked Liana.
     
    The candle flames flickered in the cross breezes, throwing dramatic shadows across the walls and ceiling. ‘To us?’ I suggested. ‘To a world that awaits us?’
     
    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s lovely; I like that.’ We clinked glasses.
     
    I watched Liana sip from her glass, savouring the fine brandy. As I lifted the glass to my lips, Liana suddenly threw back her head and emptied the glass in one.
     
    ‘Fantastic,’ she said, then, seeing me standing there nonplussed, started to laugh. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I love this stuff. And I don’t believe in treating it with any reverence. Cognac is nothing more than good hootch in my books; the best. Come on Michael, don’t just stand there gawping; we have a bottle to finish.’
     
    By the third glass I was already feeling light-headed. Liana, however, whilst in a perfectly good mood, seemed not the least affected. I had never seen anyone drink like that. She evidently enjoyed it, but it might just as well have been grape juice for all the effect it had on her. At least, that’s how it seemed at the time.
     
    By ten o’clock the bottle was three-quarters empty. Liana was now very giggly, as indeed was I. We fooled around a little - just sexual play - but did not make love. We recounted stories of drunken debauchery; Liana said she loved getting drunk on wine and brandy, but that anything else made her sick. I told her that everything made me sick, and she thought this hysterical and laughed continuously for ten minutes until, the tears streamed down her cheeks.
     
    A small, barely perceptible change came over Liana after that. It wasn’t just that she seemed to lose interest in the sex games - this didn’t bother me at all, since by that time I was incapable of anything more than some rather inept fumbling - she also appeared nervous. By the time the bottle lay empty on the floor, she was looking quite distressed.
     
    ‘What’s wrong?’ I whispered. ‘What’s the matter? Liana?’ She looked at me as if I were a complete stranger, someone who shouldn’t