Young Writers Society

Jerry

It was to be a cold winter, I knew, but I didn’t care much, for I’d always had a love of the cold. There were four of us sitting in my apartment, drinking cognac and cherry. Michael, a tall fair-haired chap from Northern England was sprawled out over one of the armchairs. I’d known him for years, and since he was always in town, there was always time for a drink. Catherine and Bill were sitting together on the couch, and I noticed the faraway look on Catherine’s face. She was a beautiful woman, with straight light blonde hair cut short at her chin, fascinating green eyes and a sharp mouth full of daggers, but for all this she did not smile much.

“They met in Romania?”

“Don’t think so, most likely drunk. Collin rarely traveled so far as Leeds,” Michael sighed. “Jesus, Jerry. We need to get out of England. You should take us all to Italy next time you go. I could do with a bloody holiday.”

“Did you visit your sister in Scotland on the weekend?” I slouched back against the chair and sipped my cognac.

“The British isles. Bloody isles. No I want to go to Africa or America. How does that sound, Jerry you devil, ever been to America?”

I grinned, and shrugged.

“Oh come on.”

“Loud voices. If you ask me-“

“Which I am.”

“If you ask me, England is far more classy. Less to do, more to talk about.”

“I still want to go. You know I was in Japan last year. So very close. By the way I saw Lucy there. Said hi, and I do believe she lost her accent.”

“Impossible,” Bill laughed.

“Oh well I suppose you’re right,” Michael said, then they both began to laugh.

“Dear Jerry, I do feel awfully tight,” Michael declared, and picked up his empty glass.

“Impossible, Michael. It takes you the entire night and it’s only six thirty.” I said.

“Yes well. I do feel rather tight nonetheless. I need some water.”

“Check the fridge.”

He got up and walked into the kitchen.

“Bloody hell Jerry you devil. I can’t see any bottles in here, apart from beer and, what’s this? Unopened chardonnay,” he paused, then “oh, and some olives here in a jar.”

“You really are terribly unorganized,” Bill commented lightly, then leant back in his chair and looked across at Catherine.

“How are you, love?” he said cheerily.

“Oh don’t breathe on me Bill, you smell pissed,” she muttered.

“Okay, love. What is it you’re reading then?”

“Anne Rice.”

“Vampires?”

“That trash?” Michael’s voice came in from the kitchen as he walked in with a glass of water and lime.

“It’s not trash, Michael. You should read something every now and then.”

“Nonsense, isn’t that right Bill?”

“No. It’s good for the imagination,” Catherine insisted.

“Michael I think hardly needs encouragement,” I said as he threw himself down on the chair, carefully holding the glass above his head.

“I should think so.”

Throwing me a bottle, he propped his feet op on the glass coffee table and pulled out a packet of cards.

“Anyone fancy Blackjack?”