The First Time

 Robert Daley

tea, no sugar

The first time you break up with someone, unexpected stuff can really throw you off.
I’d been unfaithful, more than once. The last time a week ago, with an escort. You know how it is, when you’re twenty, you’d fuck a roll of tin foil if it landed in your lap. We’d lasted eighteen months.
            “I don’t see this going anywhere,” I told her. But it wasn’t so. She’d been through my wallet, left the cards out of order. Some women don’t even need evidence.
            “I see.” She grinned as she scooped a spoonful of sugar from the bowl and gently lowered it into her tea.
            I said, “You’re taking it well.” She was resilient, for sure, the type of woman who could give birth on her lunch break and work the afternoon shift. Even so, no tears?
            “I’ve been seeing Jim.” She gripped a red lock of hair like it was an alarm cord. Stirred her tea some, generating a surge of steam. Jim was a barman at the Kensington members’ club where she waited tables. I’d met him once when I picked her up at the end of the night. He offered me a drink on the house, a glass of red. His smile could disarm an angry old lady of her cane.
“How long’s that been going on?” I cracked my knuckles.
“Three weeks or so.” She pressed her knees together. I knew it’d been longer. I could have thrown my tea in her face. But I drank it and poured another. Wanted sugar but she had the spoon. I couldn’t bear asking for it.

About the author

Robert is a forty-five year old student mental health nurse, studying at the University of the West of England. He lived in Japan for ten years and has recently been inspired by the works of Haruki Murakami. He now resides in Stroud, UK.

The First Time

By Patricia Gallagher

Bloody Mary

The red slick fanned out slowly across the floorboards. Mesmerizingly terrible.

This was not meant to happen. I thought everyone was occupied and it should have been easy to slip in and take what I wanted. But the figure in the shadows startled me and I had leapt in panic. With catastrophic results.

I soon saw that there had been no real threat from the old man, but it was too late. The damage was done. I'd always known I was bad, I'd  been told often enough. Now I knew I was really wicked I had nothing to lose. I could dive headlong and immerse myself in my true, awful nature.

Kneeling, putting thought aside, I dipped trembling fingers into the warm stickiness. Traced a bold stripe across my brow, then my nose, my cheeks, my chin. Then the desire to put my fingers to my lips became difficult to ignore - that would be a step too far wouldn't it? I did it anyway, and added disgust to the teeming sensations. I moved on to the walls, becoming daring and wild. Intoxicated, I knew one thing for certain. I would do this again.

Utterly absorbed, I was jolted to my senses only when I heard a shriek from the doorway. My poor mother had her hand to her mouth as she surveyed her studio. “God in heaven Mary, what have you done now!”

Upturned tub of paint on the floor, crimson daubs everywhere, and my four year old self, a defiant warrior among the carnage.

I got off lightly considering how long the clean up took and how expensive the jumbo tin of acrylic had been. Miraculously, the full sized, recently completed portrait of my grandfather lurking in the corner survived unscathed. His accusing eyes continued to bore into me from above the fireplace throughout my childhood.

But I did do it again. Many times. First with brush on paper and later palette knife on canvas. And crimson would always find its way in there, never failing to transport me back to my first glorious experience of artistic abandon.

The First Time

By Patricia Gallagher

Bloody Mary

The red slick fanned out slowly across the floorboards. Mesmerizingly terrible.

This was not meant to happen. I thought everyone was occupied and it should have been easy to slip in and take what I wanted. But the figure in the shadows startled me and I had leapt in panic. With catastrophic results.

I soon saw that there had been no real threat from the old man, but it was too late. The damage was done.

I'd always known I was bad, I'd  been told often enough. Now I knew I was really wicked I had nothing to lose. I could dive headlong and immerse myself in my true, awful nature.

Kneeling, putting thought aside, I dipped trembling fingers into the warm stickiness. Traced a bold stripe across my brow, then my nose, my cheeks, my chin. Then the desire to put my fingers to my lips became difficult to ignore - that would be a step too far wouldn't it? I did it anyway, and added disgust to the teeming sensations. I moved on to the walls, becoming daring and wild. Intoxicated, Iknew one thing for certain. I would do this again.

Utterly absorbed, I was jolted to my senses only when I heard a shriek from the doorway. 

My poor mother had her hand to her mouth as she surveyed her studio. “God in heaven Mary, what have you done now!”

Upturned tub of paint on the floor, crimson daubs everywhere, and my four year old self, a defiant warrior among the carnage.

I got off lightly considering how long the clean up took and how expensive the jumbo tin of acrylic had been. Miraculously, the full sized, recently completed portrait of my grandfather lurking in the corner survived unscathed. His accusing eyes continued to bore into me from above the fireplace throughout my childhood.

But I did do it again. Many times. First with brush on paper and later palette knife on canvas. And crimson would always find its way in there, never failing to transport me back to my first glorious experience of artistic abandon.