Phoenyx: Flesh & Fire
Page 32
“Fucking cowboys,” she spat. “Can’t shoot straight.” She bent over again to take my hand in hers. “Come back sometime, Phoenyx,” she sobbed. “I meant what I said about us all staying in touch. Take care of yourself, whatever you do, you gorgeous firebird. And be happy.”
She kissed me on the lips and then broke free knowing, as I did, not to prolong the farewell.
“I will, Mel. And you too. Here’s to the start of the rest of our lives, babe.”
And she stepped back, content to leave it there, having now drawn a line underneath the best part of a century’s worth of decadent culture. As I turned to wave out the window, I saw her wipe her eyes on the back of her hand, her energy draining fast and barely able to summon the strength to wave back. It was, after all, a night that none of us would ever, ever, forget.
“Wow,” I sighed as I watched her stumble back to the Klub in her too-high silver sling backs, “Sometimes, I think, there is such a thing as a happy ending, after all.”
“Sure there is,” Honey said, “every time I slide my cock into your ass, dear.”
Johnny made boyish dimples in his cheeks as he tried to laugh, then gave up.
“If that’s an example of your wit which empties bladders, then I’ll be pissing all over it,” he groaned.
But I was laughing, laughing at the delightful and familiar tune of loving banter, the kind I had always cherished when in their company; which always held my spirits high, higher than they had ever been with anybody else.
And as we drove off down Freudlose Gasse and headed out of the Red Quarter, I felt no more sadness about leaving the Kitty Klub for ever. One day I would return to tie up the loose ends, but only after Johnny, Honey and I had celebrated our reunion in true decadent Berliner style and made up for all that lost time.
And so it is that I lie sprawled over silken sheets in the Marrakesh Hilton, writing the end of this little memoir as another flaming dawn begins to burn the dusty sky outside. My hair has faded to a pale ashen yellow, like a winter’s sun – no longer the summery blaze that once inflamed hearts and ignited the stage. Johnny’s vivid firebird still stretches across my shoulders but even she, too, is a pastel shade of what she once was.
The past might be unreachable, but like a beautiful distant horizon, I can still see it, admire it, and imagine myself there once again in my dreams. But dreams aren’t so important to me now, especially since my biggest ones all came true; not since I found the reality that I’d been longing for – my Paradise Regained, my three-cornered heaven with Honey St. Clair and the man who had tattooed us both with magical ink, and in so doing, brought us all back together again through the powers of divine cosmic destiny.
Or so he says.
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