That Smell

Gandy Ardoren looked at the bottle of Budweiser in his hand. The beer swished around as Gandy rocked the bottle back and forth. The bottle tipped back and a small amount of beer rolled out onto his tongue. Gandy rolled the little fizzy ball around once or twice before swallowing. Yum.

Although not the most comfortable couch, it did hold safety. Gandy=s ass had been clinging to that safety for three hours now. He employed his best mental gymnastics to conform his body to the curves of the couch, to camouflage himself with the floral print of the fabric. The lighting was perfectly dim, allowing him to see the general pattern of action surrounding him while affording him the anonymity he craved.

This room was far enough away from the focal point, it was a side street. Traffic was light, and no one stayed for very long. There were moments of solitude, and there were moments of bustle. The exchange rate was high. At either time, however, there was no acknowledgment of recognition of Gandy, who sat there on the uncomfortable floral print couch next to a small lamp, nursing a tepid Budweiser.

Three hours, not once slipping out of awareness. In fact, he might have slipped into awareness. Yes, it was his choice to come here. It had been some months since the first inkling of realization. Just a hint. Satin hands on his shoulder, cerebral feathers tickling synapses.

He tried, really. He staked a claim in a lawn chair out in the backyard, beside the keg, and turned on the juice. But the juice didn’t flow easily. Once effortless, now slightly strained. And as the effort increased, Gandy began to detach from the situation. The din volume decreased, all he could hear were the pop and cracks of the fire. The sights of the party did not blur together, they came into focus.

Gathered in groups. Mouths opened and closed. Bottles and plastic cups and paper plates. They all seemed to be so friendly. Denim jackets and oversized flannel shirts. Touching. Six at a picnic table, but two especially with their legs intertwined and her hand on his dick. On the patio more still. Some sitting on the railing, others by the door. Walking from, walking to. The fire was losing its strength, but single flames would rise from the ashes at certain moments and
light the area for a moment before descending again.

With Bud in hand, he made his way up onto the porch, inside the sliding glass doors, and into the kitchen. Even though the bonfire and the alcohol were outside, there were still plenty of people mingling here. Down the hall, though, was the den. The den. The side street. Only a few were here, and no one was sitting on the ugly couch with the floral pattern fabric. He took his beer and sat down on the right side, next to an end table.

The television was on, tuned to a sports channel, but the volume was low. On one side of the room was a large brick fireplace. Across from the couch was an empty reclining chair, and next to that a floor lamp. That lamp was off.
It was here that Gandy took up temporary residence. What was this? Time passed and evening, the night wore on. He didn’t move. Not really thinking, not really. Just sitting, letting it go where it might.

“Who are you?”

“Don’t you remember me?”

"I think I might.”

"I think you do. You’ve been looking for me.”

"I don’t know about that.”

“Sure you do.”