Wednesday, February 06, 2008


They joked about him being the anti-Christ raring to pull out silver pistols from his black trench coat. She couldn't laugh with them. Of course he was lost in this crowd of colourful brats, not to say he wasn't one either, just that he fared a little better with his long locks. They couldn't see his face, even as the colours tempted to bring him out of the shadows.

Her head was light and her feet were moving to their own rhythm. The throat needed quenching and so a glass of water was sought. Nevermind the thirst, humanitarian notions of communism and unforgiving capitalist interests reside in conflict amongst the bartenders and paying clients.

"What am I really thinking about? My need bears no profit, so I wait while the dirty martinis and Hannekens beat an angelic glass of water."

And she can see him beaming in the distance. He mumbles something and philosophical delusions threatening to interrupt another dance for the night were sacrificed for the sake of another story about a stranger by the bar. A worthy loss for he stood six feet four inches tall with some famed silver pistols.

"Can I buy you a drink?" and the predictable conversation began.

"Oh no, I have had enough." The reply and the cue to walk away.

"Well, if you won't let me buy you a drink, how will you bear me ramble away..."

"I am still waiting for a glass of water..."

And the devil ensures she is rehydrated within moments. The conversation flows smoothly, smoother than his or her words combined. She was unraveling the many strands and threads of his life and lies, all the while entangling him in a web of mysterious smiles and sharp glances. The two pairs of eyes fought concerned stares of protective peers, never letting each other go, for the first one to falter loses the battle.

The couch was all too familiar, the boy and the girl were not. He, a recent addition to the city, missing his guitar for a worthless night of psychedelic madness and she, spending her last night in the city she was leaving forever. She slipped comfortably under his shoulders, her fingers intertwined around his, unable to push back a lock of his hair from suffocating her while her mouth was busy whispering tempting tales to his ears. They were too confident, their lives worth talking about, tailored to seduce. She was the girl you pick up. He was the guy you pick up. Neither knows they both loose.

His handa on her waist, her lips gently caressing his, the night finally reaches its conclusion. Hundreds of spoken and unspoken words have proved their worth. The hours pass in warm embrace and as dawn prepared to defeat precious debauchery, the music stops and yellow lights flood hundreds of dilated pupils.

"You have to see me again", he said letting go of her hand.

"But I won't."

He smiles at her. She hugs him and plants a soft and slow kiss on his neck. She joins her friends and walks towards a cold morning waiting to tingle her sweaty pores.

"Nah! He had no guns, just another one of those metalheads."