When I Carried You

As happens Fridays, talk turned to sexual conquests. Rublev talked about fucking some behemoth in a patterned jumper, while we derided his tenacity. 

“Just do your business, and concentrate on the beautiful flowers,” he was saying when his head crashed to the bar with a thunk.

It remained there till two. I took the crumpled dollars stuck to his face. In his pocket, Chet found a key and a green card listing an address two blocks away. We each threw a meaty paw over our shoulders and hoisted him off the stool, outside, and down the street, legs dragging through the new-fallen snow.

At a humble rowhouse, we unlocked the door and shoved Rublev inside. He collapsed in the foyer before the accusing eyes of a thumb-sucking waif. 

I stooped, saying, “Go to bed, everything’s okay,” when a scowling woman filled the hall. A large woman in a floral nightgown.