Of King Al

Smoke drifted out of the club, a sweet nicotine haze. We let it welcome us, engulf us, feed on us. The music was liquid in the air, vibrating in waves and tides that lapped over the tables and grazed our ears. Well hello there, Modest Mouse, I’d love a dance.

I grabbed Renolds’ hand and pulled her into the island of people diving into the ocean of rhythm. We were soaked in notes, drowned in lyrics, sopping wet with bass.

It was exactly what I needed.

Renolds pulled me away from the warm lyrical waters and led me to the bar. Toasting to waking up, I watched Renolds face drop as she looked past me.

“Fuckinghell,” she mumbled. I debated the possibilities of what she just said.

Fucking Elle. If that was the case, I have no idea who Elle is. And by fucking Elle, did that mean she hated this Elle, or she wanted to fuck her.

Fuck Ingal. Once again, I wasn’t quite sure what or who Ingal might have been. But I thought there was a very real possibility that someone was named Ingal and they were an asshole. If my name was Ingal, I’d probably be an asshole too.

Fucking gelle. This just seemed like gibberish. What the hell was gelle? Was I missing a popular bilingual word that was going around? Or was it some slang that I never picked up on? Perhaps it was the drink she gave me. Or maybe it was an adjective to describe it.

Of King Al. Well, that made absolutely no sense. Yet, I liked to think that’s exactly what Renolds said. It could’ve been her way of saying “By God” or “By the King.” I realized how ridiculous it was, but I had a little too much alcohol to be sensical... sensible… sensual… I had too much alcohol to think like a normal human being.

Fucking hell. This probably should’ve been my first guess. It makes sense. But as I turned to see what Renolds was glaring at, I realized that was exactly what Renolds had said.

“Fucking hell,” I mumbled in agreement.

Who had just walked into the club? Astrid, of course.