The Drink

Strong winds laden with the scent of brine and that age old breath of promised freedom whip at the tail ends of the bandanna wrapped around Des' hair. The aroma arouses his senses calling him to stand against the full force of the evening wind and draw in a deep breath. His skin detects the cool impacts of ocean spray churned with the crashing of waves into the rocky formation jutting into the Atlantic. After trudging through jungles, hunting on the great savannahs, and scaling the cliffs of his home land Des welcomes this refreshing late night reprieve. It's not every day he wanders into civility as the modern world would determine it, a point of contention he draws cross with far too often, so he should enjoy every bit of it. Des smiles at the unadorned white building standing just short of the rounded rock edge. Every piss drunk moment.
His fingers trace along the wooden door's surface worn smooth with the passing of patrons and the relentless assailant skimming over the bay. It has been ten years since he first pushed this very door open on his first night in Africa after the half decade spent in the South American wilds with the Earth Federation Ground Force. For a time he was employed here by day as a cook for the small cafe` the owner ran and at night to ensure the partying never got too far out of hand. This same establishment is where he got his first job as an interpreter for a diplomatic mission to the Khomani San, or Saasi, people of the Kalahari which spring boarded his current naturalist career. This door hinges on the pivotal transitions of his life and after every lengthy excursion he returns here to twist the joints of fate to see if a new embodiment of Des will be the one to leave. Or maybe all of the shows extolling the circular life of the planet have finally gotten the better of ol' Des. Irregardless, this door opens into a small comfortable zone of nostalgia for Des.
The interior houses the typical gloomy atmosphere that the owner achieves by reducing power to the lights; a budget minded tactic that became popular with the regulars for an even greater return. An odd retake on a classical piece plays backup to the murmuring clientele seated at rounded tables discussing one matter or another over short glasses of liquor. The bar is made of thick cherry wood stained and polished to a beautiful dark finish. A handful of men line the edge and another older gentlemen cleans glasses behind the bar while nodding along to the latest sob story. Hanging in the corner is a television flickering between static and the latest news. It's a typical Tuesday night and a reminder of why Des never fretted over working through the night.
“Hey, you old bastard,” he calls to the bartender whiling away at his glasses. Des sits at the bar and flags the man with his hands. “Turn your hearing aid on you deaf son of a bitch!”
The old man catches the motion in his peripheral vision and looks over at Des with half a smile, the right half of his face was paralyzed years ago by a serious stroke that should have killed him. He taps his ear a couple times. “Here for my daughter?”
Des slaps a few bills on the table and pats his thick field jacket, “someday she'll accept it.”
“Her mother was the same way,” the man reminisces while pulling a couple of beers out of a chest beneath the counter and setting them in front of Des. “That woman was more trouble than she was ever worth. Still not sure why I kept her around all those years.” He shakes his head and smirks at the glass in his hand he'd been cleaning. “One day I came home to find all my clothes in a horse stall.”
“Didn't know you're into that sort of thing,” Des jokes before catching the thrown towel with his face. He chuckles, tossing the towel on the counter and grabbing the pair of bottles. “Outback again?”
The man gives a harrumph and turns away to finish his duties.
She would always sneak out the back door and stare out across the ocean roaring below ever since she was a small child. No one knows why and she never told a single person or at least none that Des knew of. It is a mysterious quirk about her that disturbs some and enchants others that when combined with her natural beauty garnered her the title Siren of Clifton. There are even some local myths about her amongst the boys in the nearby schools that she uses her womanly wiles to seduce men to the ledge and fling them into the ocean to their demise. It is a spiteful rumor that Des traced back to a prohibitionist porker of a woman.
The raven haired Siren of Clifton embracing the wind near the precipice is more than enough to inspire jealousy in Des' opinion. Dim moon light illuminates her tantalizing figure that stands alone on the rounded rocks. She sways in the wind wearing a pair of stonewashed jeans and a fluttering black tank top. A cigarette hangs from her mouth, coals burn a bright orange against the night sky.
She doesn't turn to greet him as he steps next to her and plucks the cigarette from her lips. “That's going to kill you someday,” he comments flicking it over the edge between gusts.
“That's what they say about you,” her voice barely more than a whisper, she takes one of the beers from Des. “What do you want now?”
His brows crease and lips purse ever so little, “can't I come see my girl?”
She speaks between swigs of beer, “I haven't been your girl in six years.”
“Yeah,” he sighs and drowns his feelings with beer.
It's true, of course. Des really screwed up back then. Everything he wanted was in his hands, but he didn't have the balls to grab it when he had the chance. He made excuses instead. Took extended trips through the wilds of Africa. Months passed without a word between them and finally she stopped caring. Over the course of the past few years he has made several attempts to amend the situation between them, but she still hasn't forgiven him and probably never will.
“Alee-” his attempt to break the silence between them is upstaged by the beeping of his phone, “shit.” He flicks the phone open, takes note it's his agent calling, and puts it to his ear, “what is it?” Static and high pitched whining greet him with a semblance of a voice mixed within the noise. His eyes tighten and he confirms the phone has proper reception. Whatever it is, Des decides it can wait and slips the phone back into the belt mounted pouch.
“Another pressing matter you need to run off to?” The empty bottle circles listlessly in her hand.
“Can't get rid of me that easily.” A smirk plays on his face in recollection of the Siren myth circling the woman next to him.
After all these years Des still is not man enough to tell her everything he wants to say. He just comes here, stands with her on the brink, shares a beer, and says nothing of any consequence. It's a poor atonement that induces a heavy work load in an attempt to temporarily dismiss his past transgressions from memory. This most recent attempt has came to naught in his search for enduring forgetfulness.
His phone rings again, a glance at the number informs him it's the consulate, “yeah?”
“Des, I need you. Wheels up in twenty minutes and bring protection,” Jess Vine gasps over the phone.
“In twenty?” The request causes Des to reel a bit with the short deadline. “Where the hell are you going so soon?”
“Sydney or what's left of it.”
“What's left?”
“It's gone, Des. The Zeeks took out the entire damn city,” Jess pauses and speaks again much calmer than before. “Look, I don't have time to explain. Be at the airport in twenty minutes.”
The phone goes dead and he stares at the time on the lit screen; roughly half past midnight. “I have to go,” he informs her.
“I know,” still she doesn't look at him, “the world needs Des Mielle again.” She extends the empty bottle for him to dispose of.
The barb sinks deep and tempts a rise from Des. “That's right,” he cools himself and retrieves the bottle. “A hero's work is never done.”
A shiver runs through the ground beneath their feet and a sudden tremendous jolt voids them of their balance. Des pulls her to him and braces himself against the trembling ground. In time the quake subsides and he comes to the realization that he is squeezing her body against him. Peering down at her wrapped in his embrace recalls old memories of a time when this proximity was normal for the young couple. Back then he didn't need an earthquake to drive her into his arms. Under the influence of nostalgia he kisses the top of her head and runs his hand up and down her back. In time they start to rock back and forth until he cranes his head down and whispers in her ear.
“I have to go.”


“What's that?” Questions Jess Vine gesturing to the box in Des' hands as he takes his seat on the plane.
“A reminder,” Des sighs before tucking the case back into his vest. It's a reminder of the woman he can't bring himself to be open with.