[lj idol] week fifteen| "oh, when I was young..."
[one]
“Are you still angry?” he asks.
[two]
Her hands are cold. The tips of her fingers numb as she taps out a steady rhythm against the damp bar runner.
She resists the urge to rub them together.
Just.
A half-dressed stranger behind the bar is making a show of mixing the French martini she’s just ordered.
On bended knee, I pray, bartender, please…
She doesn’t turn her head to the sound of the question. Looks up instead; locks eyes via the liquor-split mirror opposite.
A degree of separation that is wholly necessary.
All things considered.
She’s never ordered a French martini before, but it is little more than the cracked poetry she is after.
[three]
She sips, once, for show; looks back only briefly as she stalks her way to the exit.
She’s done her research. There is raspberry and vodka and pineapple juice dripping from his chin, a river of sudden, pale pink blooming across the front of his shirt.
“Not anymore,” she answers; the soft, saddened sound of her voice incongruous with her actions, one hand pressed flat against the open door as she steps through and back into the night.
*
(Lyric: Bartender, Dave Matthews Band)
*
previously on...
introduction | jayus | the missing stair | in another castle | nobody can ride your back if your back's not bent | build a better mouse-trap | step on a crack, break your mother's back | yes, and... | the recency effect | barrel of monkeys | open topic | confession from the chair
“Are you still angry?” he asks.
[two]
Her hands are cold. The tips of her fingers numb as she taps out a steady rhythm against the damp bar runner.
She resists the urge to rub them together.
Just.
A half-dressed stranger behind the bar is making a show of mixing the French martini she’s just ordered.
On bended knee, I pray, bartender, please…
She doesn’t turn her head to the sound of the question. Looks up instead; locks eyes via the liquor-split mirror opposite.
A degree of separation that is wholly necessary.
All things considered.
She’s never ordered a French martini before, but it is little more than the cracked poetry she is after.
[three]
She sips, once, for show; looks back only briefly as she stalks her way to the exit.
She’s done her research. There is raspberry and vodka and pineapple juice dripping from his chin, a river of sudden, pale pink blooming across the front of his shirt.
“Not anymore,” she answers; the soft, saddened sound of her voice incongruous with her actions, one hand pressed flat against the open door as she steps through and back into the night.
*
(Lyric: Bartender, Dave Matthews Band)
*
previously on...
introduction | jayus | the missing stair | in another castle | nobody can ride your back if your back's not bent | build a better mouse-trap | step on a crack, break your mother's back | yes, and... | the recency effect | barrel of monkeys | open topic | confession from the chair