Good night.

Blade - bloodbath (New Order - confusion

There are two.  One, she told him to reserve a booth, not a table.  Perhaps somewhere in the back.  He went.  He sat.  In the wait he ordered a water.  She entered.  As always, it made an impressionistic entrance..  Long brunette hair, hanging, hiding.  The laugh.  The pause.  As if the key to salvation somehow hung in her brown curls.

Jacket matched to a split open shirt.  Torn just so.  The cleaving rise of her breasts were obviously apparent, though the observer was supposed to overlook the obvious.  How the subtle fabric barely contained, constrained, that which cried for caress.  Soft supple curves, hanging inviting, crying, but denying, any touch.  C'est la vie.  He had heard it before.  He was ready to enter the game.  The game with no winners.  All victories were empty.   Were hollow.

Such is the bacchanal.

In her purse she carried a copy: Marquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores.  Not sure if they served as reminders of what she wanted to be... or she was.  The Spanish soul, caught in the Colombian.  Her smile split, as she talked of her own art.  Fighting in he struggle to breath life into, and the fear that someone else might take it away.   He didn't really know, if he knew that as she looked to the side, to check the messenger on her phone, that he could see the light.  Not that it really mattered.  He knew her for what she was... and that was fine.  Others would be allowed to decieve themselves.  But not him.  He had lived to long.  Seen too much. 

The day of lies, or maybe disbelief had passed.

He had bought her one of his favorite works from Bukowski.  Not his best... but still pretty damn good.  She would probably never get.  That's alright.

He walked her to her car.  She prepared to get in.  As his car was only fifteen feet away, he continued to approach her in an attempt to pass by.  She sated "Oh, I don't need any help."  This was an attempt to dissuade him from making any romantic gesture.  He didn't know if he should feel sorrow, or contempt that she would think so little of him.  "I'm walking to my car," he stated.  "Your car?  Where is it?," she stated as if she believed that there could be no other logical conclusion that he was somehow trying to desperately feel that which she so valued... her form. A simple point... a simple distance.  No more than fifteen feet from her car.

He laughed.  A laugh, perhaps a quarter, perhaps a half filled with disgust, "I'm on my way to my car."  She had heard this line so many, too many times in the past reveals the reason to her response.  "Where?" He pointed, only fifteen feet ahead, forward, in the other isle, to his cat.

"Oh," was all she had to say as she stumbled, crumbled into her car.  He passed.  Thinking, but not.  Good night.  Good night.

Safe travels.

Safe harbor.

Good night.