fade into a crowded bar,
smoky, wispy;
three bar stools,
empty.
enter our three heroes
(or our three victims),
strangers.
they each take a seat,
throwing sideward glances lightly, curiously.
they hail from three different worlds
(but they're three sides of the same die).
and they all
hurt.
"shot of jameson."
the words seem to come from the stool,
only reverberating through a man in his forties.
two strangers glance sideways again, nodding slightly;
both gesture sideways with a wave of a wrist
and a point of a finger
before looking back down to the wood paneling
which seems to swirl and crack into a world all its own.
the jaded veteran of life is the first to get his drink,
followed by the frizzy haired young woman,
and then the boy who could be no older than twenty three.
three shots laid on the counter;
gulp.
three shot glasses clinking empty against the counter.
we all drink to forget, i think
(and the man, the girl, and the boy are no exception)
the man isn't happy
(and neither is his wife).
his world is woven of arguments and broken plates,
lost and tarnished love.
the burn of whiskey is nothing new
(more the burn of alcohol on a fresh wound).
his bar visits start with a head scratch and a sigh
and end with a taxicab back to his musty pillow
(and his musty love).
a tap on the shoulder,
he turns to look behind him.
"jesus, ****, bob! i've seen prettier expressions on train wrecks! come sit with the guys."
he chuckles,
they stand
arms around each other's shoulders
to a darker corner.
the man needs to forget his life
(and the frolicking through meadows he thought it'd be).
two shots on the bar,
two empty glasses thud.
it burns, but she's had worse.
the girl hasn't been so lucky.
thrown bottles and cigarette burns are her world,
and the liquor is her respite from remembering
deadbeat dad
and mom,
who
(bless her heart)
wasn't there to stand in the way.
but she's better now,
all on her own
(or so she tells herself).
the ring of a cellphone pierces the chattering of the scene
briefly
before the click;
she answers.
"oh hey. your flight's in? sure, be right there."
her heels click against the floor,
the bar stool legs creak with her exit.
the girl needs to forget her jagged recollections
(though they pull from her like barbed wire from a corpse)
so she can forgive.
a lone shot on the bar.
a lone glass full no more.
his mouth stings like a newborn's being rubbed with the *****.
he won't ever get used to the sting of good liquor
(or of wanting her at his side through cold nights).
he didn't want school or work,
striving or achieving,
or his name in print.
just their fingers intertwined, or her head upon his chest
(because secretly, he can't fall asleep,
no,
not when she had the most lovable look in her snooze).
but his affection spans mountains, fills trenches, trails from rockets blasting through the galaxy
even though his sleeve-pinned heart has been skewered without remorse
more times than he could count when he was six years old
(so, why does it come as a surprise to him that the same couldn't be said of her?).
he tells himself he'll learn how to **** and not love
(so next time he won't have to drink himself back to normal).
another
shot.
*he drinks away his future
instead of past or present
(because he needs to forget how to love).
5/29/2013
12:01am
bit on the long side, but i imagine it told as more of a story.
(parenthetical words are whispered thoughts)