The politics of thought

‘The Church of Elvis,’ he said, turning to face her.

‘A good place to recover,’ he smiled, but there was no joy to it, just regret and worry. ‘We had to knock you out to get here, and to do the operations to fix you up.’

‘That’s what that was,’ Daisy complained. ‘I thought I was going to die!’

She stepped forward and hit him softly on the chest with the sides of her clenched fists. He reached out and held her by the shoulders for a moment and she gazed up at him.

Then she began to shake, like she was cold; this changed to shock and then tears burst from her eyes.

As she began to collapse, both metaphorically and physically, Elvis held onto her, lowering her to her knees. He didn’t say anything; there were no words of sympathy which would have had any meaning…

As she sobbed into his shoulder, he stared forwards, and his eyes met those of the monk, still standing there.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

She nodded and left the room.

* * *

Daisy awoke with a clear head and stared up at the plain-white ceiling, blinked twice then realised where she was.

Something caught her eye and she turned her head to see a bunch of flowers and a small purple box on the bedside table.

She retrieved the box and tore the card from it.

It was signed

She smiled, put the card onto the bed and rubbed her face with her free hand.

Then she opened the box.

Inside were twelve of the most aromatic chocolate dusted truffles she had ever seen in her life.

She lifted one out and held it between thumb and forefinger, feeling the cocoa powder crush into her fingertips as she moved it this way and that.

Finally the temptation got the better of her, as all chocolate is wont to do, and she placed it into her mouth, savouring the dry powder, then the smooth dark chocolate shell, then the astonishing explosion of taste as the middle seeped out.

It was almost as good as sex.

Her eyes closed and she appreciated the chocolate as it penetrated her entire mouth. She felt light, almost weightless.

Her eyes snapped open suddenly.

Bzornt!

She opened her eyes and winced from an eye-watering, skull-splitting headache. She felt instinctively between her legs and found something different.

Donnie looked down and saw an empty plate. On a table.

He looked up with a frown.

‘Would sir like to see the wine list,’ asked the waiter.

Click to see the next installment: Wine, Women and War

Northcote and 75 Tram, December 2006