MANHATTAN-EXTRA DRY
a romance by
Gregg G Guydish
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MANHATTAN-EXTRA DRY
It was a dark and stormy night. And the phone was ringing.
Just Stop RINGing! STOP!!
Insomnia. God-damned insomnia.
Get up. Have a drink. Manhattan-Extra dry.
Sit on your leather wrapped couch in your Neo-art-deco living room and listen to the rain splatter against the windows. Cigarette. Can’t find a cigarette. Like you need one.
All the things that are good for you.
The phone. On the table. Just an arms reach away. I could… could… GOTTA THINK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE!
The storm. Thought the rain would cool things down. Bit it looks like it won’t. Sitting, in the dark, in the midst of this storm. If it weren’t for this damn HEAT-
It’s ringing again. Is it- it could be- CHANGE THE DAMN SUBJECT IT’S NOT HER!!
SHE DOESN’T CALL ME ANYMORE!
DAMN THIS Insomnia!
Spilled your liquor. Get another. Manhattan-Extra dry.
Goddamned hands shake. The cigarettes are here. Marlboro’s. Have a smoke. A MANLY cigarette. Inhale. Puff. Tastes like… tastes like… Manhattan-Extra dry.
Phones ringing again. Now it’s against the wall. And under your foot.
You can stop now. It’s not ringing anymore. Probably wasn’t her anyway. Probably just some vacuum salesman. Or somesuch.
That must be painful. Stomping a telephone in bare feet. Too much to drink. You’ll feel it in the morning. TRUST me.
Can’t call her now. Phones broke.
Where are you going? You have no shoes. Jacket, but no shoes. You’ll get arrested. With those bloody feet. Cop’ll think you murder-
On the street. With the winos and the junkies and the cops gettin’ donuts. Away from HIM. The other one. Away from myself.
Does anyone else hear that voice? Inside? Deep inside. I think I must be nuts.
The dealers are here. And the pimps. The whores and the donut cops. Cherry tops. Appropriately named.
There’s something else here.
Too.
A phone.
A pay phone.
Does anyone else hear that voice? Wazit? Conscience? Morals? Love?
Drop the coin. Dial the number. Damn rain…
Roxanne? Roxanne, I love you babe…
The End.