...slow dancing in a burning room...
i feel like the man you see at the end of the bar, slowly dragging on his last cigarette, sipping his scotch on the rocks. no path ahead, no light behind, nothing but the high he has each night in the comfort of that lumpy foam stool. he's been dealt the rake, and is drawing blind against the world's made hand. he bets the pot knowing he cannot win. the secret to life, given to him by an elder, is folded neatly in his shirt pocket, but he doesn't have the confidence to open it. he'd rather not risk the humility of his loneliness. he knows no one notices him here, but it's better than drinking alone. the bartender, she's so accustomed to his silhouette, that's he's become nothing more than a poster on the wall. he enters each night with no more than exactly what it takes for his drink and his usual tip. she doesn't have to help him, but he takes care of her anyhow. his obituary will read like the closing credits of a poorly done film. simply the names of the faces he's seen, no one person any more important than the rest.
the barmaid waltzes in, exactly the same steps as every night before. the leather soles of her worn out shoes slide quietly along the smooth wooden floorboards. she takes her post, sets down his bottle of scotch and carries on with her business.
but tonight, something is different. it's not the music, the same house band that starts their set at exactly eight each night. it's not the crowd, a few loyal supporters, and a new family member. she thinks it might be the weather, but she's so routine with her life, she forgot to even notice. the same cloud of smoke fills the broken ventilation ducts and suffocates the light.
the band stops playing, the drawers are cahsed out, and the floor is swept. no one notices but the bottle remains unopened. she kills the lights and locks the doors. only then, does she catch a glimmer from the Singleton label. she doesn't know why, but she cannot keep the tears back. weak in the knees she falls to the ground.
tomorrow's headlines will read, "local girl killed in atuomobile accident." the only proof he existed fades with the flowers laid on her grave. he is buried no more than twenty feet away, but from there, he hasn't seen one sorrowed glance his way.
the barmaid waltzes in, exactly the same steps as every night before. the leather soles of her worn out shoes slide quietly along the smooth wooden floorboards. she takes her post, sets down his bottle of scotch and carries on with her business.
but tonight, something is different. it's not the music, the same house band that starts their set at exactly eight each night. it's not the crowd, a few loyal supporters, and a new family member. she thinks it might be the weather, but she's so routine with her life, she forgot to even notice. the same cloud of smoke fills the broken ventilation ducts and suffocates the light.
the band stops playing, the drawers are cahsed out, and the floor is swept. no one notices but the bottle remains unopened. she kills the lights and locks the doors. only then, does she catch a glimmer from the Singleton label. she doesn't know why, but she cannot keep the tears back. weak in the knees she falls to the ground.
tomorrow's headlines will read, "local girl killed in atuomobile accident." the only proof he existed fades with the flowers laid on her grave. he is buried no more than twenty feet away, but from there, he hasn't seen one sorrowed glance his way.