Jellyfish

From: Jellyfish Looking at you There’s glitter as they walk around behind there, black teeshirts making the bottles come and go. Through a burr of other people’s talk, the soft clash of glasses, there’s Nick at the end of the counter, slivering slices of citrus so thin you can see through them from here. Sheer.

There’s enough for twenty on the board and he’s going for one more, the little yellow tit of the end of the lemon still cupped inside his palm. He lifts them like they’re cards when he’s done, a suit and a half in one hand, drops them into a water-jug, jumps back when the splash comes. It gets him anyway. He looks over at Marc hoping Marc’s seen the drama and winks, swirling the water-jug like a brandy bowl, hips swaying like a stripper’s. He pours himself a glass and drinks, his pinkie and fourth finger cocked. No tattoos, no rings, no friendship bracelets; dear god no watch. His arms are completely naked. Rod comes, a tray of half-pints in both fists. He slides behind Nick to half-way then stops, shifting the tray to the one hand like a barbell, whispering. His double earring rubs against itself when he tilts his head, whispering secret barman stuff, almost kissing Nick’s neck. Rod’s lips are a toddler’s lips, soft and fat and sheeny. He and Nick have the same short hairstyle, necks like mushroom stalks, translucent under the bar lights. They don’t need to exchange looks, just smile looking in the same direction, crotch to arse as Nick goes on slicing, listening, his nape bared. Rod flips the tray higher when Marc comes over too; it’s right up on the balls of his fingertips.

Now there’s room for three. Whatever it is he says they all laugh and you’ve never seen so many perfect teeth. All those creamy ivories. The open mouths attract Steven, ten tan fingers dripping from the glasses he’s just washed so he has to hold them up like a flamenco dancer to save the others from splashes. Little rivulets of water snake down his arms, veins coursing on the surface. Nick looks thin as a stick beside him, all angles and pipecleaner bends and fuzzy to the touch you bet you bet. Steve is square and olive-skinned, early Elvis sideburns with a fine silver chain tipping his breastbone. A stiff chest, a heartbeat you’d be able to hear out loud, feel if he stood close. He’s the most beautiful man you ever saw and he only has eyes for Marc. Marc knows and doesn’t mind. Not at all. Marc’s straight as a cucumber, so white he’s blue. Celtic. Opening his shirt would make you snow-blind. Temporarily. His nipples would be like bites. He has red, red, cockscomb hair. And he’s not looking at the barmaid. Nobody’s looking at the barmaid. He’s looking at you.