Cocktail Menu
Luminous pink wine, and vodka shots that taste of treacle toffee and bubblegum. With every pulse things gets softer and deeper for her; until she throbs along with the dark streets, cracky with light and noise in the places where life happens. Years ago she danced home at four a.m., whipped about in the wind, with the dark knight who propped her up at the bar. Curls drooped, lipstick stained her face. He picked up the rag doll under her arms and told her it was bedtime. She wakes up now to a sharp, sharp pain, glittering and hot, slicing through her thoughts. Dusty lines start to wriggle and wrinkle from the corners of her eyes. The thick sweet sludge that cloys her throat has turned the nights to neon slush. Little flickering nerves are flayed and spliced. With horror she touches the side of her face gone slack.
Two medical students bend over leathery flaps of abdominal skin, groping through gristle for a bloated organ as big as a baby pig, a fibrous knotty mass of tissues. They wrinkle their noses at the acidic smell, hopelessly delving deeper. ‘I can’t stomach this after last night,’ they say.
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