"So how was recce, Ms Scout?", he asked, knowing pretty well she's contented to have ended the day at the pub next door. Knowing that those could be the last words he ever muttered.
“People are insipid. But they’re beautiful to watch. Maybe the world would be better if we just didn’t talk. I could kiss you hello and let my palm speak to you, trail your skin with my fingertips. And palm to palm is like heart to heart, and we’ll know everything about anything about each other, about anybody through smiles, through eyes, through kisses and caresses. No ill words, no disappointments, just that comfortable silent line between harmony and empty.”
“So the recce went bad?”
“The post-recce was nice. I can’t drink as well as I used to.”
“You shouldn’t drink.”
“I shouldn’t a lot-of-things.”
“But you still do.”
“Yeah.”
She looked at his eyes. At, not into. She looked away before he caught her, looking into his eyes, trying to read something real behind it. Exhaling a billow of smoke from her lips that spread and disappeared in the distance between them, she decided,
“I’ll hide here.”
“What did you say, miss?”
...as he turned to her. He knew she was looking not because of some God given gift but rather, at the reflection from the mirror behind the bar.
"Here's a pretty good place to hide, I know, I'm here all the time."
He reaches for her empty glass but before she could let out a verbal protest reminiscent of a rolling avalanche...
"Barkeep, another round please!"
..and the avalanche falls gently like snowflakes on them.
Two 'likeable' souls, two snow angels
on a balmy February night.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Maybe?”
“Then talk to me.”
He told her stories, many stories – some true, most based on half-truths and his propensity to make stories up just for her. She appreciated this, began to even consider the possibility that they might be more alike than she’d like them to be.
“You scare me.”
“You like me?”
“No, just the fear. I like the fear.”
They were dust angels, lying in the debris of familiar memories, fallen like old architecture.
"Fear.. ," he lets out a sigh in nicotined-stained breath.
She waits.
".... was Flea's punk band before the Chilli Peppers," he said rather nonchalantly.
She had somehow half-expected that, she smiles & her mind wanders.
'What if we ran away, screw the world & lived under a bridge. With bonfires to keep us warm & only our souls to squeeze, what if we headed into a bookstore now & I drop a pile of books on his feet without as much of a hint of apology, would he be mad? Would we end sharing more than just coffee, cigarettes or even similar memories. Would we end up...'
"I could've lied," he broke the silence. "But I chose to tell you the truth because the truth hurts", he turned her palm over & traced an imaginary line.
"Don't fear what hurts cos everything had a reason & every journey starts somewhere..."
"So where do we start & why are you here?" she interjects.
His finger traces the outer ridges of her palm & then....
"...here."
...in the middle of her palm. Amidst the fallen architecure & drunken snow angels, the dust settled as she realized the beauty of the lines on her palm. She realized he stopped at Fate.
“For some reason, ‘Dosed’ plays in my head when I talk to you. I think I’m going insane.”
She pulled her hand away, downed the whiskey in one long gulp.
Lay on, lay on, lay on, lay on
“I think ‘Death of a Martian’ suits you better.”
“Am I dying?”
She took a deep long drag from her cigarette. It was definitely dying,
“...the stars lie. Do you always speak in song?”
Whiskey and spirit has an indirect proportion to one another. When one rises, the other falls. His face began to blur. The lines of his jaw smudged against the backdrop of that smoky bar – a watercolour painting too pretty to be framed.
“You are insane.”
“Sometimes.”
She placed her hand atop of his. Gripped it a little harder. Swiveled around to the barkeep, away from him, hoping the thing burning her stomach was the whiskey.
We'll crucify the insincere tonight
We'll make things right, we'll feel it all tonight
We'll find a way to offer up the night tonight
The indescribable moments of your life tonight
The impossible is possible tonight
Believe in me as I believe in you, tonight
Morning breaks, a dream wet, burst like a cracked egg. She woke up looking for him, forgetting that his existence was as real as his absence.
"Good morning, you."
Sun streak blinds his eyes, he had forgotten to draw the blinds...
again.
What a hot morning it is, maybe tomorrow it'll rain, he loves the rain, the sound of raindrops on the glass ceiling especially the cool breeze that follows.
He smiles & turns the radio on...
'The sun will come out tomorrow....'
" Ahhhh!! Screw you Annie!, " as he gobbles up the broken egg
Good noon KittieCat
She looks at his shoulder, his arm, the sunlight streaking more lines upon lines of his ink. She trails those lines, palm kissing his arm, lines upon lines.
She turns hastily and collapses on her back, a cloud of smoke cutting through the sunrays like thought bubbles with ill intent.
"I should really stop smoking."
"Were you looking at me, kitty?"
His eyes remained close.
"No, dream on!"
He smiled.
This is a collection of e-mails written between a man and I. The words emboldened, are mine.
1 comment:
the biskit?
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