'Never satiated' (published in Big Red Cat Issue #2)

published
Scream if you need to go faster, if that's your desire, say the old adage: the customer is always right, is king, and so survey their subjects with dispassionate eyes, demanding. I order some nibbles and remain at the bar with every fibre, despondently slotting them in like a 10p machine rigged against us, until the bowl is clean. The light dims and kitchen closes so I settle and slip home. Never satiated with another bite, another course; a cigarette with the ash hanging on. Drag this skinny fry through that mayo and swallow whole. I feel like an eclair slammed in a car door, dairy on passenger seat, on headrests, which detach if you were sinking as weapons with which to smash through a window and escape. I keep one to hand now. The rest is articulated elsewhere, not in words but senseless consonants clattering in gibberish. I have no business to settle with you. The conversation ends, and here you are: playing chess as both colours to win.
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Stay for another, a short story

published
I put down the glass, drunk, empty. The last of the ice cubes spin, disturbed. I hadn't seen the chip on the rim until then, sipping regardless, and wonder if it would have coloured the flavour otherwise. No harm, no claim. Precipitation dampens the beermat despite it having been a spirit. I suppose that hardly matters so long as it protects the surfaces. The dark wood bears many rings, still. A hand points, inquisitive, not hesitant, into view on the periphery. 'You finished with this one?' She changes weight between legs. 'Just now, yes.' I feel abrupt; but this was unintentional. 'Oh, well, sorry.' The daylight dulls through frosted windows at the front, sensing this and reacting. The black plastic tray perched on her left forearm is worn and cracked at the side. I shouldn't say. 'That tray's cracked, I think.' 'They all are.' Her eyes flicker. May the ground swallow me. 'Can I get you anything else?' Unusual, I thought you had to order at the bar. 'I'll come up and pay?' 'No, it's okay, I thought you might like to stay for another.' 'I'll still pay–' 'It's on me.' I pick up the glass, chipped, hoping that it will be noticed after I'm gone. No ice for water now, I proffer it. It stands on the tray alone. 'Same again then?' 'Please.' 'Single malt?' 'Alright.' She goes, the apron bow low around her back coming undone. I wasn't expecting anything, honestly. I wonder what makes today different. I wonder why, often. She dispenses the tray onto the bar without effort. Feeling the looseness at her back, she reaches to remedy it. One hand then the other, twisting. A double bow. Though she's new in here, she's good. This isn't her first bar, her first tray, her first apron. An ice cube in her hand, from the cooler. Tossed into the glass like the ball for a roulette wheel. The whisky bottle, lifted; she seizes the cap and plucks it free. Pours. 

— Giuliano Piacentini © 2022






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