TheBanyanTree: Another Requiem

[RJ Fernalld]

"G'mornin, sweet."

My eyes opened slightly; reluctantly. I could not place the hairy 
muscled arm that lay draped on mine, its owner's hard body molded behind 
me. The smell of him was not known to me either. The crumpled, sweat 
soaked sheets felt as intrusive as his breath on my neck.

"I gotta go," he whispered as he fondled my breasts and nuzzled my neck.

His weight quit the bed and I heard him showering, still unsure of his 
identity. Then....ahhh, yes. The man from the bar on 6th Street. Mickey 
Somebody-or-Other. Another somebody-or-other in a long list of losers. I 
closed my eyes, listening to him move about the rooms, like a shadow. I 
hoped against hope that he would speak not again.

This one was just another substitute. Another stand-in, another stop-gap 
in the parade of days since yesterday swept you away. Without the parade 
I would have long since lapsed into a parody of myself. They are not 
you, but they do at least keep me conscious of life, though I ache 
inside, living without you.

Sundays together with you, coffee and sex and the Sunday paper. Shower, 
dress for a supper at the cafe, and The Sunday Nite Movie. Best day of 
the week, and now the only day when another won't do. You left me after 
sex, before coffee that Sunday. Said you needed cigarettes. I recall you 
said nothing more, just grabbed the keys, and left in silence. Never saw 
you again. Died in DaNang, '72, with my ring on your finger. Your 
buddies tried to save you. You tried to say my name they said,  gurgled 
blood, and gave in to death.

Over thirty years, and no blunting. The pain continues. I have only 
need...need that another cannot assuage.

Beneath hooded eyelids, I hear this one. He has readied himself. He will 
join you soon. I have arranged it. Let him do so wordlessly.

My eyes still closed against the heaviness of morning, I hear the 
poisoned juice glass shatter, then feel the impact as his body falls on 
the glass. He has gone like every other, dead for no good reason for the 
purpose of power over nothing.

My noiseless scream reverberates into the void of the walking-dead 
survivors:

"Requiem aeternam dona eis, God, you heartless bastard. Your silence 
condemns you, O Great God of War and Politicians. Fear not, you 
son-of-a-bitch. On Sundays I'll increase your body count with yet 
another requiem."

The war never ends for some of us.

copyright R J Fernalld 2003