Brothers of the Moon

No Oil Painting-2

Jackson adjusted the painting and stepped back.

“Is that straight?” he asked.

“It’s the only thing in here that is,” said Paula with a smirk.

Jackson turned and looked at his oldest and dearest friend directly in the eye.

“Ah-ha! So you’ve gone queer on me?”

Paula slapped him playfully on the bum.

“Well, you said it’s the only straight thing in here. I was just…”

Paula slapped him again and chased him into the kitchen.

“Now you’re here, you can make me one of those Vodka and cranberry cocktails.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “They’re called Cosmopolitans. Geez, have you never seen an episode of s*x and the City? You gotta get educated.”

Jackson had the cocktail glasses out before he’d finished speaking.

“So you really like the painting?” he asked as he added ice to the cocktail shaker.

“Yes. I love it. Apart from the fact that the guy in it is hotter than Ricky Martin, it reminds me a bit of the Mona Lisa. Like a male Mona Lisa.”

Jackson measured the Cointreau and the vodka and then poured in the cranberry juice.

“I just hope it’s worth as much when it comes time to sell it.”

Paula gasped. “You’re not going to sell it, are you? Shiiit man, you just bought it.”

Jackson put the lid on the cocktail shaker and shook it.

“I’m not going to sell it in the foreseeable future. I was just saying I hope its value shoots through the roof. I mean I spent about a third of a year’s salary on it. I gotta at least make that back.”

Jackson poured the cocktails and passed one to Paula.

“Come on. Let’s go and sit on my bed. We can get slaughtered while staring at my beautiful picture.”

Four Cosmopolitans later, Jackson and Paula had moved the party into the living room. Alas, shortly afterwards, Paula had to admit defeat. She stood up, staggered forward and picked up her shoes.

“I have to go home while I can still remember where I live.”

“Aw, you can’t go yet. There’s still some alcohol left.”

“Save it for next time.”

Jackson slid down the side of the couch until he was flat on his back.

“It won’t last that long.” He closed his eyes. Sleep wasn’t far away. “You sure you don’t want to stay? You can have the spare room. You’re in no fit state to be walking the streets.”

“I’ll be fine. I can handle four Cosmopolitans.”

“I’m not talking about the Cosmopolitans. You just shouldn’t be let out amongst decent people.”

Both of them burst out laughing, though Paula added a couple of playful slaps to hers. Then, after kissing Jackson goodbye, she let herself out, leaving Jackson with half a glass of Cosmopolitan and the beginnings of what promised to be a headache of Vesuvian proportions.

With every ounce of willpower he had, Jackson hauled himself off the couch and walked down the short four meter hallway to his bedroom. When his eyes fell upon his newly acquired portrait, he staggered up to it and planted his lips firmly on those of the man in the painting.

“Good night, lover,” he slurred.

Then he held his arms out and fell backwards onto the bed. After his head stopped spinning, he began to regret having drunk as much as he had. His stomach was churning like a washing machine. Within the minute, he was hugging the toilet bowl and delivering into it all the efforts of his cocktail making.