Vegas
Vegas. A bright, blazing spot of light in the middle of nothingness. And after awhile, you start to think it would have been better if the nothing had won. Once you realize the pretty lights are powered by burning dreams. And when your dreams are all gone, there's nothing to do but sit up and watch the sparkle of other, younger spirits thrown on the pile.
I was there with my boy José. He's a good man to the dreamless. He doesn't judge, he doesn't blame, he doesn't pry, and he goes well with lime, which at least keeps you in vitamin C and electrolytes. Depression is hell on your electrolytes.
I had enough luck coming to me to have been looking at the door, instead of José, when you walked in. Everyone must have had the same thought I did when they saw you; what the hell is she doing here? It was a place for losers, and the lost. And here you came in, bulletproof in that little red dress. Like Jesus among the damned. Only... in a little red dress. And no doubt looking better in it than He would have.
I still don't know why you sat across from me. I like to think you saw some spark in me, but maybe you just wanted to meet José; the barkeep didn't stop you when you snatched up a glass from behind the bar. No one could have stopped you -- you seemed to cross from the door to my table in about three easy steps, and all I could think of as I sat helpless in your sites was a shark cruising in for a bite.
You bit the chunk of lime instead. (If I'd been a lime, it's the way I'd have wanted to go.) You didn't squint or wince -- it could have been a grape for all the reaction you showed. You poured three fingers of José -- half of what I had left -- and drained it in one pull. You winced at that. Closed your eyes, anyway.
When you and José had had your moment, you looked across at me again. "What's your story?"
Maybe it was your dress. Maybe it was your eyes. Maybe it was my having said hardly ten words to anyone in the past three weeks of downward spiral. (Yeah, that'd be it.) But for once, cynicism failed me. Sarcasm slept, irony slipped quietly away to do its laundry, leaving just you and me. And I just... told you my story. About lust turned to love turned to apologies for the misunderstanding. Not one dollar gambled away, because gambling would have meant a chance of breaking even. And how I couldn't even blame the heartless bitch because she wasn't, really -- I'd just filled in the promises she'd been so careful not to make.
I don't know whether I stayed emotionless because of José, or because my emotions were an empty barrel. Or, just maybe, because as I said it I could recognize every silly, self-absorbed thing I'd thought and done to fuel the story from the start. Soon I was watching it turn to self-pity, and that into the great, wide trail to where I was. Sitting with my boy José. My voice trailed off as the telling caught up to the present. Amazing how much there really wasn't to that story.
Suddenly feeling the draft from my emotional zipper, I looked for somewhere to tuck my end of the conversation. "What's your story?"
You poured yourself another thumb's worth. "An old high school friend works at MGM Grand. We decided to get together for the weekend."
I listened to every word. I know all seventeen by heart. I nodded, sagely.
"Was it worth the trip so far?" I asked, hoping it would do for conversation.
You thought for a second. "Yeah. Worth the price of the ticket, anyway." You paused before you asked, "You?"
I thought for a second longer than you. "Yeah," I said. "Same here."
I could have sat in silence with you for hours. But after a while, I had to ask. "This doesn't end with one us going back to the other's room, does it?"
Whether it was disgust, or pity, or both that raised your eyebrow... well, I can't see it makes any difference. "No," you said. "No, I don't think so."
"Good." I paid my own last respects to José, then sighed. "I guess that would have been pretty fucking cliché, wouldn't it?"
I was there with my boy José. He's a good man to the dreamless. He doesn't judge, he doesn't blame, he doesn't pry, and he goes well with lime, which at least keeps you in vitamin C and electrolytes. Depression is hell on your electrolytes.
I had enough luck coming to me to have been looking at the door, instead of José, when you walked in. Everyone must have had the same thought I did when they saw you; what the hell is she doing here? It was a place for losers, and the lost. And here you came in, bulletproof in that little red dress. Like Jesus among the damned. Only... in a little red dress. And no doubt looking better in it than He would have.
I still don't know why you sat across from me. I like to think you saw some spark in me, but maybe you just wanted to meet José; the barkeep didn't stop you when you snatched up a glass from behind the bar. No one could have stopped you -- you seemed to cross from the door to my table in about three easy steps, and all I could think of as I sat helpless in your sites was a shark cruising in for a bite.
You bit the chunk of lime instead. (If I'd been a lime, it's the way I'd have wanted to go.) You didn't squint or wince -- it could have been a grape for all the reaction you showed. You poured three fingers of José -- half of what I had left -- and drained it in one pull. You winced at that. Closed your eyes, anyway.
When you and José had had your moment, you looked across at me again. "What's your story?"
Maybe it was your dress. Maybe it was your eyes. Maybe it was my having said hardly ten words to anyone in the past three weeks of downward spiral. (Yeah, that'd be it.) But for once, cynicism failed me. Sarcasm slept, irony slipped quietly away to do its laundry, leaving just you and me. And I just... told you my story. About lust turned to love turned to apologies for the misunderstanding. Not one dollar gambled away, because gambling would have meant a chance of breaking even. And how I couldn't even blame the heartless bitch because she wasn't, really -- I'd just filled in the promises she'd been so careful not to make.
I don't know whether I stayed emotionless because of José, or because my emotions were an empty barrel. Or, just maybe, because as I said it I could recognize every silly, self-absorbed thing I'd thought and done to fuel the story from the start. Soon I was watching it turn to self-pity, and that into the great, wide trail to where I was. Sitting with my boy José. My voice trailed off as the telling caught up to the present. Amazing how much there really wasn't to that story.
Suddenly feeling the draft from my emotional zipper, I looked for somewhere to tuck my end of the conversation. "What's your story?"
You poured yourself another thumb's worth. "An old high school friend works at MGM Grand. We decided to get together for the weekend."
I listened to every word. I know all seventeen by heart. I nodded, sagely.
"Was it worth the trip so far?" I asked, hoping it would do for conversation.
You thought for a second. "Yeah. Worth the price of the ticket, anyway." You paused before you asked, "You?"
I thought for a second longer than you. "Yeah," I said. "Same here."
I could have sat in silence with you for hours. But after a while, I had to ask. "This doesn't end with one us going back to the other's room, does it?"
Whether it was disgust, or pity, or both that raised your eyebrow... well, I can't see it makes any difference. "No," you said. "No, I don't think so."
"Good." I paid my own last respects to José, then sighed. "I guess that would have been pretty fucking cliché, wouldn't it?"