shiny and smooth
she reminds him of new leather.
patent, even.
california stars light the
glitter in her eyes to new octaves
and he's blinded
for a split
second
while he gathers his bearings.
he'll never have them again,
not with the way she looks at him.
he sat at the bar, despondent. he was dressed for her, dressed to take this last plunge with her, and there he was, drinking black on the rocks after black on the rocks, pounding them back like it was two a.m. the sun shone brightly outside. he looked at his watch. noon. he thought about getting up. thought about all the people he was letting down. thought about how much he was letting her down. his glass was nearly empty. i could leave now, he thought. staring into his glass, he swirled the ice and water around and held back the urge to walk out. he signaled to the bartender for another. "you sure, buddy?" the woman asked. he nodded once in assent.
her mother sat in the pew next to her brother and father. it had taken everything she had to get out of bed this morning, on time, sitting there without assistance. she heard nothing around her.
the t.v. in the bar was showing protest in Europe over human rights violations and exiled leaders. he saw the violence, but couldn't place it. the fear crept back, taking over again. he felt heavy.
her mother looked for him, the man she recognized from pictures in emails. her eyes rolled over face after face in the nearly-full room and were familiar with very few people. in the background guns n' roses played. she lost it, right there in front of everyone, the wall of fleshly cement could no longer function. her son was close enough to catch her as she began to fall, and with his sister's father righted her mother back in the pew. she realized the man wasn't in the room.
he wore the blazer she used to slip notes into. a note for everything, she'd leave them there to tell him to have a safe flight, to feel better, to have a good night at work, to just say she loved him. he reached in the pocket and pulled out the one that had been there from weeks before. reading it again he crumpled it in front of him and left it in his empty glass. he tossed money on the counter and got up with conviction, stepping hard-footed towards the door, transferring a cigarette from his pocket to his lips with the deft grace of an addict.
proceedings began and she was numb. someone handed her flowers after they spoke and her only reply was one of murmured disgust: "i hate mums." there were plenty of harmonic mumbles, hushed wisps of pity and condolence. she didn't process that they were directed toward her.
the bartender wouldn't serve him another when he came back in. he stared at her for a minute, contemplating whether his next movement would be to just take another or to leave without a scene. he looked at his watch. she'd still be there. he still had time. he stood and watched the breaking news concerning the police forces sent in to quash the rioters, thought for a second, and walked back outside. he stopped to put on his sunglasses and light a cigarette as he made his way up the block to the next bar.
(layla, eric clapton's unplugged version; sweet child of mine by g&r; winter by tori amos)
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