The Bottle
by Nyssa Jayne
A half empty bottle was on the coffee table. At frequent intervals, one
of the four of us would grab at it, Natalie more than anyone. It was clear
to me that she was nervous, she always was in the presence of my brothers.
"We have to tell someone... we have to tell them," she'd said that
afternoon, as we shopped duty free. Pick of the stand and she still
wouldn't take the perfume.
"It can wait," I'd said.
"But why? They're not going to stop making Yoko jokes."
"They're going to believe them instead," I'd sighed. "Sure the bottle is a
wise choice now?"
"At least I won't remember this way."
The bottle appealed to Isaac and Zac tonight.
"Check it out," beamed Isaac, holding up some notes. "A bilingual track.
English and French."
"Your ultimate romance trip," nodded Zac. Isaac started to tear it up.
"Another song that nobody will hear." A swig from the bottle.
"At least you weren't told you were useless."
"Ringo jokes bringing you down?" mumbled Nat, snatching the bottle.
"Shut up, Yoko." She was well and truly gone by this stage.
"What if your niece or nephew ends up a great musician?" Natalie continued
to muck up her Lennon history, but she'd already said enough. I took the
bottle in preparation.
"Niece? Nephew?"
"We were going to tell you tonight."
"Fucking hell, Taylor!" one of them screamed.
"And now she's drinking?" noted the other. Natalie was singing to herself,
scratching herself with the cross she wore around her neck.
"How did it happen?"
"Quite simply, considering." I remembered and I knew she remembered too.
I had been writing songs in the LA studios all day while she worked (modelling,
today was a glossy shoot). The writing would never see the light of day,
not only because of the quality, but because I was becoming used to the fact.
A distressing thought that produced more songs. I was feeling this blow to
the guts far too much, feeling the disappointment and anger that other spoke of
around me. I'd lost Zac to tears and Isaac to drink earlier. Then,
Natalie buzzed, asking to be let in. Once in the door, she dived into my
arms and my buttons.
"I'm too fat, too skinny, too big, too small, too innocent, too jaded.
Managers, media, all say different things. All I want is to stop thinking
and just feel." She pressed her lips against mine and I relished the warm
and salty taste of tears. "I don't want to analyse or create art, I just
want to fuck."
And I agreed. I didn't explain this, though.
"We just didn't think of it." Nat tipped the bottle upside down.
"All gone."