syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
He lifts one of the two glasses of whiskey to his mouth savoring the reek before swallowing the hefty shot in a single gulp.
You gonna drink yours, he asks, almost immediately.
You shake your head and move the fish around on your plate. He greedily drinks the second shot just as effortlessly. He is always ordering you drinks you don’t want or trying to force drugs on you in an effort to validate his abuse. There was a time when these eccentricities amused and even excited you, but that was before you saw the darker side to his habits. The constant vomiting, the blacking out, the embarrassment he causes you, no longer seems romantic or even tolerable.
How’s your chicken, you ask.
It’s dry, he says, distracted. Where the fuck is our waiter?
You don’t answer. He grabs the arm of a young blond waiting on the table next to yours, who is trying to tell an elderly couple the evening specials. She stops mid sentence and he says, we need a couple more drinks over here.
Surprised and annoyed she says, someone will be with you in just a minute sir.
Embarrassed again, you move your head closer to the plate as he mutters the word “bitch”.
She’s not even our waitress, you say to the remains of the blackened tuna on your plate.
As always, when it comes to liquor or drugs, he is persistent until he gets what he wants. Now he will be drunk and stupid and you will have to apologize for the behavior he won’t even remember. As he drinks and smokes you begin to realize how apathetic you’ve become, how you’re involved in yet another selfish, swallow, drunken, waste of time, always chasing the instantly gratified emotion. As he says for the hundredth time, “have a drink with me” you try and weigh you diminishing options.
Everything had happened so quickly.
Move in with me, he had said, pushing your black hair from your eyes and gently tucking it behind your ear, his lips only inches from your own. You felt your face grow hot as you smiled helplessly and stared back into those watery, olive eyes. It had been so long since someone looked at you, really looked at you like that. The need for companionship had grown so potent you just needed someone to show you that you weren’t completely unlovable. By placing his hand on your thigh and leaning a little closer to breathe softly on your neck between temperate kisses, he had done this.
You remember running your fingers over the black ink tattooed on his back and shoulders, his head resting on your chest, his rough unshaven cheek pressed against the top of your breasts, his strong hands slipping around your waist and pulling you closer in the cold night. God, how you miss that.
You fucking lose something over here buddy, he says to the unfortunate elderly man from the next table who happen to let his gaze linger a little too long on your low cut dress, the dress he asked you to wear.
Sweetie, take it easy ok? My mother is coming down tomorrow and really wants to meet you. It would be nice if you weren’t completely hung-over.
I’ll be fine, he says dismissively.
Changing the subject you say, Hass is giving a reading tonight at the Speakeasy. Maybe we could go.
They only serve beer in that shit hole. Besides Hass’s build of juxtaposed images and observations make me sick to my ass. I hate it when poets can’t see themselves past their prime. It’s beyond tragic. Why do you think he’s reading the Speakeasy?
Watching him steady himself for another dose of cirrhosis the frustration and tedium that’s been building for weeks suddenly makes it’s way from your mind to your lips and before you can stop yourself you are saying, you never want to do anything anymore. I’m so sick of this shit. Is this really how you want it to go, making small talk every night while you get too trashed to fuck me? That way I just get bored watching you do it over and over and find someone else? Then you can feel justified in telling everyone what a whore I was, maybe write about the whole calamity in your little notebook. At least that way you can sleep easily knowing the whole world is just as shitty as you think it is.
What the fuck? What is your problem?
My problem is sitting here with you. My problem is you stinking of whiskey all the time, of idleness. My problem is we’re not going anywhere or doing anything but passing the time. My problem is you sinking into a pit of alcoholism and despair, enjoying it, while you try to pull me down with you.
Did I say something to upset you, he asks.
Standing and grabbing your Chantal purse he gave you three weeks after your birthday from around the chair you say, you just don’t fucking get it do you? I’m going to stay with Jules tonight. We’ll talk tomorrow.
Turning you back on your former life and walking quickly towards the double doors, you hear him calling your name with increasing urgency. You sling the purse around your shoulder and push hard on both doors, letting the cool night air brush your face as you step into the street.
You gonna drink yours, he asks, almost immediately.
You shake your head and move the fish around on your plate. He greedily drinks the second shot just as effortlessly. He is always ordering you drinks you don’t want or trying to force drugs on you in an effort to validate his abuse. There was a time when these eccentricities amused and even excited you, but that was before you saw the darker side to his habits. The constant vomiting, the blacking out, the embarrassment he causes you, no longer seems romantic or even tolerable.
How’s your chicken, you ask.
It’s dry, he says, distracted. Where the fuck is our waiter?
You don’t answer. He grabs the arm of a young blond waiting on the table next to yours, who is trying to tell an elderly couple the evening specials. She stops mid sentence and he says, we need a couple more drinks over here.
Surprised and annoyed she says, someone will be with you in just a minute sir.
Embarrassed again, you move your head closer to the plate as he mutters the word “bitch”.
She’s not even our waitress, you say to the remains of the blackened tuna on your plate.
As always, when it comes to liquor or drugs, he is persistent until he gets what he wants. Now he will be drunk and stupid and you will have to apologize for the behavior he won’t even remember. As he drinks and smokes you begin to realize how apathetic you’ve become, how you’re involved in yet another selfish, swallow, drunken, waste of time, always chasing the instantly gratified emotion. As he says for the hundredth time, “have a drink with me” you try and weigh you diminishing options.
Everything had happened so quickly.
Move in with me, he had said, pushing your black hair from your eyes and gently tucking it behind your ear, his lips only inches from your own. You felt your face grow hot as you smiled helplessly and stared back into those watery, olive eyes. It had been so long since someone looked at you, really looked at you like that. The need for companionship had grown so potent you just needed someone to show you that you weren’t completely unlovable. By placing his hand on your thigh and leaning a little closer to breathe softly on your neck between temperate kisses, he had done this.
You remember running your fingers over the black ink tattooed on his back and shoulders, his head resting on your chest, his rough unshaven cheek pressed against the top of your breasts, his strong hands slipping around your waist and pulling you closer in the cold night. God, how you miss that.
You fucking lose something over here buddy, he says to the unfortunate elderly man from the next table who happen to let his gaze linger a little too long on your low cut dress, the dress he asked you to wear.
Sweetie, take it easy ok? My mother is coming down tomorrow and really wants to meet you. It would be nice if you weren’t completely hung-over.
I’ll be fine, he says dismissively.
Changing the subject you say, Hass is giving a reading tonight at the Speakeasy. Maybe we could go.
They only serve beer in that shit hole. Besides Hass’s build of juxtaposed images and observations make me sick to my ass. I hate it when poets can’t see themselves past their prime. It’s beyond tragic. Why do you think he’s reading the Speakeasy?
Watching him steady himself for another dose of cirrhosis the frustration and tedium that’s been building for weeks suddenly makes it’s way from your mind to your lips and before you can stop yourself you are saying, you never want to do anything anymore. I’m so sick of this shit. Is this really how you want it to go, making small talk every night while you get too trashed to fuck me? That way I just get bored watching you do it over and over and find someone else? Then you can feel justified in telling everyone what a whore I was, maybe write about the whole calamity in your little notebook. At least that way you can sleep easily knowing the whole world is just as shitty as you think it is.
What the fuck? What is your problem?
My problem is sitting here with you. My problem is you stinking of whiskey all the time, of idleness. My problem is we’re not going anywhere or doing anything but passing the time. My problem is you sinking into a pit of alcoholism and despair, enjoying it, while you try to pull me down with you.
Did I say something to upset you, he asks.
Standing and grabbing your Chantal purse he gave you three weeks after your birthday from around the chair you say, you just don’t fucking get it do you? I’m going to stay with Jules tonight. We’ll talk tomorrow.
Turning you back on your former life and walking quickly towards the double doors, you hear him calling your name with increasing urgency. You sling the purse around your shoulder and push hard on both doors, letting the cool night air brush your face as you step into the street.
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