Impotence
jan windle
Edward was in the foyer with a bottle of wine. Almost freezing outside but he wore denim shorts. His thin knees looked vulnerable. His chicken neck stuck out aggressively. He said loudly, "I'm impotent, who are you?"
I'd already drunk too much; my name eluded me. Edward scowled and grumbled loudly. "Don't want to go to bed. Be all right if I wasn't on my own. No hot water in this fucking hotel." I saw the receptionist's head twitch in our direction.
I stood up, fell down. Edward continued talking. About the history of the titled families of Britain.
"Do you want to sleep in my room?" Edward interrupted himself. "Don't worry, I'm impotent," he spat in the direction of the receptionist. "Chemo," he said airily. "Flat as a pancake."
He was impotent. I wanted to prove otherwise, stop the flow of words. Nothing worked. I woke at five. Edward was still talking. He said there were funny noises in the room. Bleeps. My head sang. I looked at my phone. Michele. Had been waiting for me outside the apartment. I strode home through the dawn. Michele was gone of course.
I never saw Edward again, either.
Janice Windle is English. She is a painter and poet. Her flash fiction is mainly based on ideas gathered while she is working and playing in Italy.
My website is at http://artwork4u.comYou can read my illustrated blogs about the Amalfi Coast at http://janatartwork4udotcom.blogspot.com My illustrated poems are at http://http://janicewindle.blogspot.comThe rest of my poems, not illustrated, are at http://www.poemhunter.com/janice-windleCome check me out on MySpace at http://www.myspace.com/janatartwork4udotcom