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Damn this godforsaken place. With yearning he looks out of the small window, watching others marching with sword and pistol in rank and file, shouting orders, getting orders, establishing the union jack on the new conquered grounds of Philadelphia. He would slit someones throat to be part of it. With a heavy sigh, he turns his eyes back onto his desk. Instead he is cursed with quill and ink instead of sword and pistol. Every evening for two whole weeks by now his hand hurts in cramps from filling out forms the whole day. He rather would get the captain´s daughter than this. This sort of punishment is truly hell. Worse than hell.
He throws a glance around. No one is watching. Even this moronic supervisor is busy with reading a cheap novel. Judged by the strange angel he keeps his legs crossed, how uneasy he moves on his chair and the red face it´s highly inappropriate during duty. Not his problem. He sneaks the piece of paper, he wrote at, from underneath the form. The poetic verses he worked at. A smaller sigh escapes him. For a small moment a different name than the one that´s written on the paper pops into his mind.
He turns his gaze back out of the window. Shortly his heart stops to beat. The figure, such chestnut curls... he narrows his eyes. Since when is she... how... The Admiral would have written him that... No. A breath of relief leaves him as the madam turns around and it´s clearly visible that it´s not her. The chestnut curls deceived him. He don´t know what he would have done if it would have been really her. If she would be really here. He can´t tell if he could have stayed seated or jumped up and rushed out.
Four more hours and he is released for the day, leaving the commissary behind him. Like the last days, no one is here out of free will, everybody here is serving a punishment, the path does not lead into their quarters. It´s leading to the only joy this town has to offer for those like them when work is done. A tavern with cheap ale and cheaper ladies. A few coins and a few cups later he already feels drowsy. It´s not a good ale. Probably the cheapest of whole Philadelphia. For a split second he saw his own reflection in a glass in which a liquor is handed to them. Eyes glassy, face sweaty, cheeks red. He is drunk. It´s the only thing one can do here in the evening. Getting drunk. May it be in a cheap tavern or on a posh party... All are only thirsty for getting drunk, that´s the only goal around here.
He doesn´t tune in to the drunken roar of a song. He does not take part in laughing about and making filthy jokes. He drank to forget, not to be funny. His eyes fixed onto the glass between his fingers, twisting and turning his around the whole time as suddenly a blurry shadow of colourful shawls sits down next to him, the scent of lavender stings in his nose.
"Hello, sweetheart."
Too much red on the cheeks and lips, the powder almost sweated off, the coal around the eyes smeared. Obviously the best Philadelphia has to offer at this hour. Taking a look around, he admits he could have had it worse.
"Brave soldiers are always heartily welcomed here."
She plays with the bow that keeps the hair of the wig together.
"I am filling out forms in the commissonary..."
"Well, someone has to do it, right? Without boys like you, everything would end in chaos..."
Now she plays with the lapel of his coat.
"And if you are a nice boy you can show me the shooting skills of you British soldiers," she grins.
At least she seems to still have all her teeth. He reaches into his pocket, putting five coins onto the table and shoving these towards her. "I can be a very good boy," he slurs. Yes. He is definitely drunk.
"And very good boys are allowed to raise their flag in my garden. You British boys are always so kind and generous."
He reaches again into his pocket, pulling out another coin between his index- and middle finger. With taking her hand into his he presses said coin against the back of her fingers, blowing a kiss onto her knuckles. A silent offer to earn a small bonus. "Good evening..." The name lies on his tongue, his mind wants to say it. Only these four letters, readable both ways. It was explicit this name that only has two letters from the alphabet and no other. "...Lizzie." Bloody twat.
"Good evening, my Lord. I am Lizzie, nice to meet you," she smiles and takes the bonus. Should he call her whatever he prefers if it gains her an extra coin.
"John," he nods. "I am John."
"Of course, John. Would John like to follow Lizzie to somewhere quieter and more cosy?"
With a tiny delay, he nods, getting onto his feet with her help. He pays his bill and a bottle of wine, those girls know how to use their clients to get out most of it, and leaves the tavern with her on his arm.
It would have been a five minutes walk, but in his current state it took them ten to reach the quarter of the town where the girls are allowed to stay, to reach her tent. He already lost his orientation, not knowing this town as well as Setauket by now. Well, therefore Setauket lacks of whores. Young girls that hope to fish themselves a soldier to leave that pit behind one day is the most it has to offer. But he doesn´t want just any young girl, a simple country miss. And even the lady he chose in Setauket is now overshadowed.
He didn´t want to. He didn´t want to neither think of her name nor her face. She should... just go away! Getting out of his head, leaving his mind! He won´t ever have her, why is he then haunted by her? He freezes shortly, the wine bottle is taken out of his hand. Is she... maybe... is her ghost haunting him ´cause he left her behind and... no. His godfather would have written him. Out of spite she would refuse to die at the hands of her husband or in wedlock.
"Don´t be sad, John. Beautiful men shouldn´t be sad."
Torn out of his thoughts, he didn´t realize at first that he´s not wearing his coat anymore. Eyes fixed onto her, his knees feel... wobbly. It had been ages since he was this drunk.
"You don´t look like a man who drinks to laugh, but more to forget. I can help you to forget, my dear."
He feels her hand sneaking up to his neck, pulling him down. Wet lips are pressed against his, a second hand fumbles at his shirt. The kiss lacks of any passion, any warmth. It was cold and professional. A kiss that has been kissed a hundred times, lips that have kissed a thousand times. Lips that know exactly how much pressure they need to give the illusion...
She never kissed him like this. Every kiss of her was passionate. It has been years from now, but he still remembers it. The tiny little kiss onto the corner of his lips when she was done. He remembers her smile. How it reflected in her eyes...
He gasps as her fingers are gliding into his pants and grabbing him without hesitation. Pushing the pants down and dragging him with her. Experienced fingers, knowing where to stroke him to make him standing at attention. Soft flesh growing hart within a few minutes only in the skillful hand. More fumbling, fabric´s being pulled aside. A groan as she guides him inside. Without wanting it her name slips again from his lips. Again and again, with every thrust he murmurs it, whispering, sighing, groaning, moaning. Lizzie. Lizzie. Lizzie.
The skin damp and cold, the air sticky with evaporations of alcohol, fish oil from the lamps, perfumes and sweat. With heavy breath he tries to gain his again, rolling off of her. He doesn´t feel as relieved as he hoped to, wanted to feel, used to feel afterwards. The contrary. He feels pathetic. Emberrassed. Ashamed. He just wants to get away and being alone again, drowning in his own pitifulness.
He sits up, collecting his clothes. With unsteady fingers, he dresses himself again.
"I will never understand why men always sighing the name of the girl who broke their heart."
He pauses for a moment before he continues. She never did it. He did it all by himself.
"It´s like you all want to live in endless agony."
"Can´t remember to have paid you for babbling," he murmurs. With shaky knees, he stands up, putting on his coat and adjusting all the best he can in his current state. He deserves that agony. For that one time in his life where he had been a coward he has to pay for and he will until he dies. He wants it like that.
Only thanks to the rank of Captain he hasn´t to sleep in a dorm, but has at least this little bit of privacy of an own room. Finding the right way and returning, he stumbled first over some debris on the street. Drunk and full with frustration and anger he destroyed whatever laid in his way. Only splinters of wood remained and can´t tell what it once had been. Back in his room, he furiously throws the wig aside, the coat follows. Hastily he opens the secret back of his secretaire box, pulling out the letters he´s hiding there. Letters he never opened, never read because he´s too big of a coward. Never could bring it over him to read that she might be happy, having maybe children of someone else. He holds them in his hands, ready to tear these unread apart... He tries it once. Twice.
He can´t. He can´t do it. Those letters are the last and only thing he kept, he got from her. Tears start to roll, he sobs. He will maybe never read them, but they are from her. He is a pathetic mess. Drunk and sobbing.
He put the letters back where they belong, carefully closing the secret back again. He pities himself. He should sleep and never drink again. He lies back and closes his eyes, knowing tomorrow or in two or three days he´s repeating it again.
Opening his eyes again the sun is shining outside. Flutes and drums, the sound of marching feet. Immediately he sits up straight, taking a look out of the window. He doesn´t think of how strange it is that he has no headache, not feeling nauseous. He puts on his wig, taking his coat and rushing outside. He tries to find the supervisor or anyone who might can tell him what´s going, why there is a parade. Is the war over? Have they won? Have they conquered another post or are they fleeing with flying colours? All these questions don´t matter anymore as he looks around and sees her. He freezes. There she is. Next to her father, watching the parade. Fresh like the spring. Proud and full with self-confidence. More beautiful than he remembers. He makes his way through the people, not caring for anything or anyone else, moving through the like through fog. Since when is she here? Exactly here in Philadelphia? He pulls together all of his self control. "Elizabeth?" Especially as she turns around to him.
"John," she smiles bright. "What a pleasurable surprise!"
"I thought you´d be married? What... why are you here?"
"Oh, I am not married at all."
That was the last straw. One more step and he can put his arm around her, pulling her closer and kissing her like she deserved it, like he wants to for a very long time, cutting out everyone else. That´s how a kiss should feel like. Just like she does it. Melting into his embrace, sighing against his lips and parting these for more passion.
An icy cold splash of water hit´s his face and drenching him.
"Get up! Duty started half an hour ago! You´ll never leave Philadlephia like this."
His head aches, he feels nauseous. He knows he´s going to do it again in two or three days. Only to end in the same dream. It´s worth it. A tiny piece of heaven in this hell.