Free Clockwork Dolls - FF by R. W. Whitefield - FF Page B

think of it…who the fuck are you?”
    As Dave knew she would, Jane Barr tried to calm the situation.
    That’s my girl.
    “I invited her along. We met at my yoga class.”
    Dave leered at the new woman.
    “Do you do contortions?”
    The woman laughed.
    “Well, I could tie you in knots.”
    She had a soft southern accent that Dave might even have found pleasant in other circumstances. He was about to reply but the drink had slowed him down by now, and the woman, Maggie, was already speaking across the table to Jane.
    “When you said you’d introduce me to your friends, I thought you meant your sober ones.”
    Dave laughed, too long and too loudly.
    “Nobody sober here except us chickens. We’ve all been drinkers, back since the first year at university, since Jane and I got together. Happy days.”
    Jim Barr butted in.
    “There’s your problem right there, Dave. All you do is talk about the good old days , and drink too much.”
    “They were the best days of my life,” Dave replied.
    “We were young, we were students, we drank a lot. Big fucking deal. What else is there to know? Move on. The rest of us have grown up,” Jim said, his face getting red again. “It’s well past time that you did, too.”
    Jane tugged at her husband’s elbow, trying to stop him, but the argument had started to get heated, and the booze did Dave’s talking for him.
    “Grown up? Is that what you call it?”
    Jim was in no mood to back down.
    “You’d rather wallow in your own sad, little dream world? Look at the state of you. Get a life, Dave.”
    ”I had a life…once.” He looked at Jane, then back at Jim. “You took it away from me.”
    Jim sighed loudly.
    “Not that old tune again, Dave. Give it a fucking rest. It’s been nearly ten years…and it was your own fault. It’s high time you faced it. You lost it. You had it all. Now look at you. Just another drunk with a grudge.”
    Dave stood, too fast, knocking over glasses.
    “I might be drunk, but you’re an uptight fucker with a pole up his ass. In the morning, I’ll be sober. But that pole will still be there. You stole my life. And I want it back. I want what I deserve.”
    Glasses flew, tumbled and broke as he banged his fist on the table.
    There was a sudden deathly silence.
    All anger gone now, Jim spoke softly.
    “Dave…”
    “What is it now?” Dave said, still belligerent.
    Jim pointed down to the table. Dave looked down to see a long cut on the outside of his hand where he had banged it down on broken glass. The drink had dulled his senses, but his sight was still good enough to spot the long sliver of glass still embedded in the wound.
    Jane shouted.
    “Don’t…”
    Without thinking, Dave pulled the sliver out.
    “…take it out,” Jane finished.
    The wound gaped open. Blood spurted and mixed with spilled wine, creating a dark shadow that lay on the highly polished wood of the table.
    Dave sat down, hard.
    “Well, that was fun,” he said. He had gone white, his eyelids fluttering.
    Jim got up quickly and came around the table.
    “Nice shooting, Tex. How bad is it?”
    Dave held the hand away from his body. More thick drops of blood oozed onto the table. Jane also stood to come around the table. Dave waved her away, nearly knocking over another wineglass in the process and sending a spray of blood dots over one of the few white parts of the tablecloth.
    “I’m OK. Don’t fuss,” he said.
    Jane ignored him and turned to her husband. Just the sight of the look that passed between Jim and Jane made Dave’s heart lurch , and suddenly all he wanted was more booze.
    Lots more booze.
    “ The bandages are in the bathroom cabinet,” Jane said to Jim. “I’ll get them. Can you clean up here?”
    Jim, suddenly sober, nodded and turned back to look at Dave.
    “Try not to bleed on the carpet, Dave. If you remember, I’ve still got the mop pole up my ass.”
    Dave smiled wanly, and felt a well-recognised hint of shame for his inner turmoil.
    Lots