She slips over to the liquor cabinet and places a thin green bottle in the girl’s soft porcelain palms. Twisting the cap from the whiskey bottle, she pours his drink and brings the glass back full.

“You want the girls to come back in?”

“Not just yet. I may be some time.”

Smiling coldly now he imagines her heavy gaze upon him. She’s got two buttons undone.

She steps away for a second before taking in his limp form filling the chair under a yellow lamplight smirking to himself.

“He needs some time, girls.”

They sigh a little disappointment. They want to inspire him

“Why doesn’t he go for a walk? We can wait for his inspiration”

“No, he’s fine. He might need a few minutes to gather his thoughts, though.”

They solemnly acknowledge the necessity of artistic cont-em-plation and sip lightly at their emptying drinks, lips curling slightly over the frosted glass’s edge.

“Have you read the book Alice?”

“Some of it. He never showed it to me before the release, and then I asked him to explain it and he refused.”

“Poetry can’t be paraphrased, darling,” a lone call sounds weakly from under the door.

“Right dear,” she whispers softly down towards her chest. “He’s full of shit like that.”

Giggling slightly, they want to understand.

“You were high school sweethearts, weren’t you, Alice?”

“What?” somewhat distractedly she’s still staring at the door.

“You and him, you guys fell in love quite early on.”

“Early on? Oh, yes.”

“Was he your first?”

“First what?” she replied with subtle venom.

“Love, of course!”

“Oh. Love.”

“Well?”

“Yes, of course he was. I was quite young. He swept me off my feet,” she hears herself droning in coarse, monotonous prose.

“Did he write poems for you then?”

“Yes. Much different ones than now, I think.”

“Did you keep them?”

“They’re in a box.”

“Can we see them?”

“Oh, can we?”

Pleading plaintive cries unheeded shrilly sound.

“Not right now.”

He slips a little into sleep as the whiskey tumbles onto the glass wood tabletop and his hand gently eases down to meet his thigh. The cigarette smoke trails slowly onto the ceiling before drifting into oblivion under the watchful glare of a yellow table lamp.

Placing a drink cooly on the counter, she turns again to their gleaming anxious cheeks, atop which rest much younger eyes glistening still in the sunlight streaming in.

“I think he’s done now, girls. Let’s see.”