This will be the safest encounter you've ever had...
In the night, well after the dinner rush, The Winchester is empty and quiet, save for the music playing from the radio -- just a few random Cure and Siouxsie albums I picked out earlier to go on after Gideon's show -- echoes of it fading out the open doors and into the night. While anyone with a radio can hear it, I've put it on for me. It fills the quiet while I do late night inventories, turn over chairs and wipe down tables. It fills the quiet, before the work is done and I can go home.
But now, I'm not working. I'm sitting barefoot on the bar, smoke curling from my lips and a joint burning between thumb and forefinger, my eyes on the opposite wall.
I'd come out of the kitchen, turned the corner and there it was, just hanging on my wall like it had always been there. That was over an hour ago, and here I am, sitting directly across from it, quietly chain-smoking alone in an empty bar. There's an open textbook beside me, and in the kitchen there are two slices of cake I saved up to take home, both pieces of a new life clashing with another unexpected reminder of a life I can't seem to burn away.
It's warm and muggy, my shoes discarded by the door, my sleeves rolled up and my shirt left hanging open -- a plaid work-shirt that's a size or two too big and I think belong to Tom at one time or another. I slide off the bar and I drift closer, remembering with a vague kind of embarrassment how fucking stupid I'd been that night.
What surprises me most is that I don't hate it. Cocking my head to the side, smoke curling up toward the ceiling, I can't seem to look away from those eyes, but it's not with the same clawing desperation as the last time I saw this painting. Those huge, sad eyes that, four years ago, had seemed so lost and quietly pleading. It's fucking beautiful, even this cheap, over-sized reproduction.
It's been an hour, but I can't bring myself to take it down. I know that I should want it gone, because I can still hear his voice and how fucking broken and lonely and pathetic he was. I know I should want to light fire to it and just watch it burn...
But I don't.
[[My random Neil post turned into an item post. Oops. This is around midnight, after the kitchen's already closed, though he will still serve you drinks. The painting is a 7ft tall reproduction of Vermeer's Girl With A Pearl Earring. It is hanging on the wall opposite the bar, and very hard to miss. This is open to everyone, it's not going to be a typical flood of emo, but if you know Neil and you're one of the few that doesn't know that he was a hooker, you'll probably find out now. ST/LT, and new toplevels until I say Uncle.]]
But now, I'm not working. I'm sitting barefoot on the bar, smoke curling from my lips and a joint burning between thumb and forefinger, my eyes on the opposite wall.
I'd come out of the kitchen, turned the corner and there it was, just hanging on my wall like it had always been there. That was over an hour ago, and here I am, sitting directly across from it, quietly chain-smoking alone in an empty bar. There's an open textbook beside me, and in the kitchen there are two slices of cake I saved up to take home, both pieces of a new life clashing with another unexpected reminder of a life I can't seem to burn away.
It's warm and muggy, my shoes discarded by the door, my sleeves rolled up and my shirt left hanging open -- a plaid work-shirt that's a size or two too big and I think belong to Tom at one time or another. I slide off the bar and I drift closer, remembering with a vague kind of embarrassment how fucking stupid I'd been that night.
What surprises me most is that I don't hate it. Cocking my head to the side, smoke curling up toward the ceiling, I can't seem to look away from those eyes, but it's not with the same clawing desperation as the last time I saw this painting. Those huge, sad eyes that, four years ago, had seemed so lost and quietly pleading. It's fucking beautiful, even this cheap, over-sized reproduction.
It's been an hour, but I can't bring myself to take it down. I know that I should want it gone, because I can still hear his voice and how fucking broken and lonely and pathetic he was. I know I should want to light fire to it and just watch it burn...
But I don't.
[[My random Neil post turned into an item post. Oops. This is around midnight, after the kitchen's already closed, though he will still serve you drinks. The painting is a 7ft tall reproduction of Vermeer's Girl With A Pearl Earring. It is hanging on the wall opposite the bar, and very hard to miss. This is open to everyone, it's not going to be a typical flood of emo, but if you know Neil and you're one of the few that doesn't know that he was a hooker, you'll probably find out now. ST/LT, and new toplevels until I say Uncle.]]
