(no subject)
Francis spat on the ground. He’d bitten his lip trying to look interesting, and he’d decided perhaps he’d bitten too hard, a ruddiness tinting his saliva as it hit the concrete. Whenever he felt sick when he was little, his parents gave him ginger ale and a bit of lime to bite on. This was way bigger than ginger ale and lime. This was like hot chocolate and Russian roulette big.
He slotted a cigarette on his bottom lip and felt around for a lighter, but soon felt better of it and gave the rest of the pack, as well as the one that rested on his lip, to a passing teenager.
“Thanks man.” He didn’t even care that a bit of blood had stained the filter - he was there with friends to watch the show. Sometimes it’s comforting that we can’t see unpleasant things as well in the dark, Francis thought. In any case, he was now without anything to fidget with, and desperately looked for something to occupy time he could have been trapped into conversation. Lately he’d been locked in an inward battle between quaint awkwardness and social retardation, a civil war of sorts if you knew him personally. A girl sat down across from him, smiling. He glanced up and smiled, though he had no idea who she was.
“Hi, my name is Margot.” He nodded and shook her hand. It was cold and she was quite pale, so he reached to offer her a cigarette.
“Francis, dammit. Sorry.” He realized he’d given them away.
“Francis Dammit, eh?” She joked. She smiled. Her gossamer skin contrasted against her black hair framing her beautiful blue eyes in such a way that he felt sure she had to be aware of it. It was too perfect for her to not play a greater role than simply ‘being’, but, of course, he couldn’t prove it. He, in turn, clinked the ice in his glass. He hiccupped. In between hiccups he found the time to sigh heavily, and his pretty friend found it within herself to ask
“Is there something wrong? I’ve watched you sitting here all night, and you look positively devastated.” She touched his hand and something stirred inside of him, but not in the normal weekend of prom, boy-girl way. Thinking instead that she might lend a sympathetic ear, this is what interested him. Her being so beautiful would be a fringe benefit - like confessing to the Pieta.
“It goes like this,” and he waved his hand. Instinctively, he painted a landscape of desolation, a life after a war. What was there to do but tell her everything? She loved him, he loved her, he fought with himself, and she did, too. There wasn’t another man, and there wasn’t another woman. Instead, there was a quiet unity bringing them together and then forcing them apart.
“A birth and a death,” she’d said as she finished her drink. He ordered her another, but she paid for it and smiled at him, clasping his hand tighter. He continued with pillars of dedication holding up a roof that was still being built. There was a hesitation, though, and instead of meeting in the middle, the structure stopped. The roof couldn’t extend further from one side than the other. They waited, but for how long?
“But you don’t know what happens.” It wasn’t a question. Accordingly, Francis nodded. “What do you want to happen?” Francis closed his eyes and thought. Nothing changed - he couldn’t decide.
“No, that’s not it,” he said, “not that I can’t decide, but that it’s somehow not my place.” She nodded and finished her drink. This time she ordered one for each of them. He paid, this time smiling at her as best he could muster.
“So you can’t decide, and you can’t feel this way for too long, yes? So, what now?” She drummed her fingers and his stomach turned.
“You are Death then, correct?” He tried to spit again, but couldn’t; his mouth was too dry.
“That is vulgar. I am Chance, if you must label me. This place, however, is no wonderland, and you are no Steppenwolf. Within you there is more than this - or - that.” Her eyes said further, You have no proof that this love exists. She sees her future as one or the other, but you needn’t. Are you an artist? Maybe there is a teacher hiding within you. Perhaps, strangely enough, you would be a priest.
None of these things will bring her to me, his eyes fired back.
Does it matter, is what I’m asking you. Will it make a difference?
I know love, and this is it. I’ve felt it reciprocated and it causes me, at times in equal measure, joy and pain. It is this in this pain she chooses, she makes her choice.
And what if she chooses a life without you?
He thought about this. “I shall take my leave. What future do I have if I go around condemning it now? It is a damnable profession to lament the future when it lies unpredicted.” He placed a few dollars on the table and waved to the kid he’d given the cigarettes to earlier.
“Everything is damnable.” She said. He wasn’t listening, though. He left her brooding, plucking his future from her shining eyes, still misguided but awash in hope.
He slotted a cigarette on his bottom lip and felt around for a lighter, but soon felt better of it and gave the rest of the pack, as well as the one that rested on his lip, to a passing teenager.
“Thanks man.” He didn’t even care that a bit of blood had stained the filter - he was there with friends to watch the show. Sometimes it’s comforting that we can’t see unpleasant things as well in the dark, Francis thought. In any case, he was now without anything to fidget with, and desperately looked for something to occupy time he could have been trapped into conversation. Lately he’d been locked in an inward battle between quaint awkwardness and social retardation, a civil war of sorts if you knew him personally. A girl sat down across from him, smiling. He glanced up and smiled, though he had no idea who she was.
“Hi, my name is Margot.” He nodded and shook her hand. It was cold and she was quite pale, so he reached to offer her a cigarette.
“Francis, dammit. Sorry.” He realized he’d given them away.
“Francis Dammit, eh?” She joked. She smiled. Her gossamer skin contrasted against her black hair framing her beautiful blue eyes in such a way that he felt sure she had to be aware of it. It was too perfect for her to not play a greater role than simply ‘being’, but, of course, he couldn’t prove it. He, in turn, clinked the ice in his glass. He hiccupped. In between hiccups he found the time to sigh heavily, and his pretty friend found it within herself to ask
“Is there something wrong? I’ve watched you sitting here all night, and you look positively devastated.” She touched his hand and something stirred inside of him, but not in the normal weekend of prom, boy-girl way. Thinking instead that she might lend a sympathetic ear, this is what interested him. Her being so beautiful would be a fringe benefit - like confessing to the Pieta.
“It goes like this,” and he waved his hand. Instinctively, he painted a landscape of desolation, a life after a war. What was there to do but tell her everything? She loved him, he loved her, he fought with himself, and she did, too. There wasn’t another man, and there wasn’t another woman. Instead, there was a quiet unity bringing them together and then forcing them apart.
“A birth and a death,” she’d said as she finished her drink. He ordered her another, but she paid for it and smiled at him, clasping his hand tighter. He continued with pillars of dedication holding up a roof that was still being built. There was a hesitation, though, and instead of meeting in the middle, the structure stopped. The roof couldn’t extend further from one side than the other. They waited, but for how long?
“But you don’t know what happens.” It wasn’t a question. Accordingly, Francis nodded. “What do you want to happen?” Francis closed his eyes and thought. Nothing changed - he couldn’t decide.
“No, that’s not it,” he said, “not that I can’t decide, but that it’s somehow not my place.” She nodded and finished her drink. This time she ordered one for each of them. He paid, this time smiling at her as best he could muster.
“So you can’t decide, and you can’t feel this way for too long, yes? So, what now?” She drummed her fingers and his stomach turned.
“You are Death then, correct?” He tried to spit again, but couldn’t; his mouth was too dry.
“That is vulgar. I am Chance, if you must label me. This place, however, is no wonderland, and you are no Steppenwolf. Within you there is more than this - or - that.” Her eyes said further, You have no proof that this love exists. She sees her future as one or the other, but you needn’t. Are you an artist? Maybe there is a teacher hiding within you. Perhaps, strangely enough, you would be a priest.
None of these things will bring her to me, his eyes fired back.
Does it matter, is what I’m asking you. Will it make a difference?
I know love, and this is it. I’ve felt it reciprocated and it causes me, at times in equal measure, joy and pain. It is this in this pain she chooses, she makes her choice.
And what if she chooses a life without you?
He thought about this. “I shall take my leave. What future do I have if I go around condemning it now? It is a damnable profession to lament the future when it lies unpredicted.” He placed a few dollars on the table and waved to the kid he’d given the cigarettes to earlier.
“Everything is damnable.” She said. He wasn’t listening, though. He left her brooding, plucking his future from her shining eyes, still misguided but awash in hope.