#345 - Reconcile
Are you well organised?
Your life passes before your eyes before you die, and the word for that is living. Pay attention now.
~
There's a woman in the park in her panties, arms thrown up over her head as she dances through the sprinklers, bejewelled droplets glittering down the smooth swirls of her tattoos. Her hair whips to the beats blasting from some '80s refugee ghetto-blaster while old, overweight tourists sag in groaning deckchairs and alternate goggling and grumping. Summer is falling apart, turning cool, another victim of global warming, but the woman squeezes every last drop from all its worth, dances like the world isn't watching.
(Not everybody is. Over here, a man in glasses huffs over pumpkin latte and says, "Look, you know he's never going to suddenly decide he made a huge mistake, dump you, and run away with me to, to Bulgaria and, whatever, breed Quidditch superstars or something, right?" and his companion rolls currently blue-grey eyes and says, "I said it was irrational; do keep up, Potter," while ice keeps spiral time in his glass.)
The grass is wet and cool and in her head she's twenty again, pink haired and Grecian, sweating and shagging her way along the Mediterranean, calling herself Indigo and laughing every night away. She's twenty again, spinning in the spray, in a breeze bearing the dust and heat of ten thousand cars crawling through the city just beyond those trees, just behind those walls. She's Indigo, and she has nothing to do with anything. She doesn't.
~
"All I'm saying is, we can't keep fighting."
"And I'm saying we're not fighting."
"And now we're fighting about whether we're fighting or not."
"Maybe you are, Potter. I'm not fighting."
"I'm just saying--"
"Could we maybe save this conversation for when people aren't trying to kill us?"
"People are always trying to kill us."
"How is that my fault?"
"Maybe if you have a plan--!"
"Okay, you want a plan? Here's the plan. I, right, I am going to ... hit that guy. And then you, ah, do something. Got that?"
"What sort of plan is that?"
"A short one? On three!"
"Three!"
~
There's an old man sitting in a dark corner of the pub, nursing the single pint of Guinness his doctors still let him have, playing cards out by the feel of the barely-raised ridges, handy for solitaire, handier for poker. It's been years since he terrorised the greatest casinos of the world, emptying tables from Vegas to Macau, and he remembers every hand fondly and doesn't regret his retirement at all. It's good to be slow and to be soft, to saunter comfortably down into the dark. He plays a red seven on a black eight and enjoys the ringing quiet where once unceasingly jingled a thousand slot-machine bells.
(It's almost quiet, at least. One table over, a bruised man in glasses is laughing fit to burst while his cut-up companion, very modern with that white streak in his hair, is saying, "We totally forgot to buy it, man; we gotta go back!" and being pulled back into his seat every time he wobbles in a direction that's vaguely up, making all the empty glasses and bottles on the table rattle and chime.)
The stout is dark and rich against his tongue, the cards sharp and easy in his hands, and he stacks them, King to Ace in alternating colours, Ace to King all the same, down and up until they're all gone home. He chuckles to himself, brings them back for the double-riffle split and begins to deal again. Win or lose, it doesn't matter. It's not important and neither is he, and that's just the way he likes it. Nothing important at all.
~
Everybody is a bit part in someone else's story, but it's okay, because there's just the one story, and it goes on forever.
Your life passes before your eyes before you die, and the word for that is living. Pay attention now.
~
There's a woman in the park in her panties, arms thrown up over her head as she dances through the sprinklers, bejewelled droplets glittering down the smooth swirls of her tattoos. Her hair whips to the beats blasting from some '80s refugee ghetto-blaster while old, overweight tourists sag in groaning deckchairs and alternate goggling and grumping. Summer is falling apart, turning cool, another victim of global warming, but the woman squeezes every last drop from all its worth, dances like the world isn't watching.
(Not everybody is. Over here, a man in glasses huffs over pumpkin latte and says, "Look, you know he's never going to suddenly decide he made a huge mistake, dump you, and run away with me to, to Bulgaria and, whatever, breed Quidditch superstars or something, right?" and his companion rolls currently blue-grey eyes and says, "I said it was irrational; do keep up, Potter," while ice keeps spiral time in his glass.)
The grass is wet and cool and in her head she's twenty again, pink haired and Grecian, sweating and shagging her way along the Mediterranean, calling herself Indigo and laughing every night away. She's twenty again, spinning in the spray, in a breeze bearing the dust and heat of ten thousand cars crawling through the city just beyond those trees, just behind those walls. She's Indigo, and she has nothing to do with anything. She doesn't.
~
"All I'm saying is, we can't keep fighting."
"And I'm saying we're not fighting."
"And now we're fighting about whether we're fighting or not."
"Maybe you are, Potter. I'm not fighting."
"I'm just saying--"
"Could we maybe save this conversation for when people aren't trying to kill us?"
"People are always trying to kill us."
"How is that my fault?"
"Maybe if you have a plan--!"
"Okay, you want a plan? Here's the plan. I, right, I am going to ... hit that guy. And then you, ah, do something. Got that?"
"What sort of plan is that?"
"A short one? On three!"
"Three!"
~
There's an old man sitting in a dark corner of the pub, nursing the single pint of Guinness his doctors still let him have, playing cards out by the feel of the barely-raised ridges, handy for solitaire, handier for poker. It's been years since he terrorised the greatest casinos of the world, emptying tables from Vegas to Macau, and he remembers every hand fondly and doesn't regret his retirement at all. It's good to be slow and to be soft, to saunter comfortably down into the dark. He plays a red seven on a black eight and enjoys the ringing quiet where once unceasingly jingled a thousand slot-machine bells.
(It's almost quiet, at least. One table over, a bruised man in glasses is laughing fit to burst while his cut-up companion, very modern with that white streak in his hair, is saying, "We totally forgot to buy it, man; we gotta go back!" and being pulled back into his seat every time he wobbles in a direction that's vaguely up, making all the empty glasses and bottles on the table rattle and chime.)
The stout is dark and rich against his tongue, the cards sharp and easy in his hands, and he stacks them, King to Ace in alternating colours, Ace to King all the same, down and up until they're all gone home. He chuckles to himself, brings them back for the double-riffle split and begins to deal again. Win or lose, it doesn't matter. It's not important and neither is he, and that's just the way he likes it. Nothing important at all.
~
Everybody is a bit part in someone else's story, but it's okay, because there's just the one story, and it goes on forever.