When I Ruled The World
Saint Peter.
He sat at the bar, head down
The tired cliché
with his drink. The bartender ignored him. Gone were the days of
“Hey, buddy, what’s got you down? Lady troubles?”
the congenial barkeep. Not in a joint like this, anyway. A smile to entice tips was about as good as it got. A clean glass the extent of gratitude for the tip. Good service,
what didn’t get complaints to the management; it was just that
the bare minimum. With no hint of the stereotypical sigh he wanted to let out, his shoulder muscles as seen from the back tensed, his arm rising, wrist not shaking at all which clutched the glass he drained. Soft exhalation. He wasn’t drunk,
his ex girlfriend always accused him of being drunk
he wasn’t drunk,
she wouldn’t care, alcohol was alcohol
and he was sick of coming off as defensive. But
he’d been drinking, he had drunk, why wasn’t he?
The logic of that woman defied argument. Or at least she defied argument. He didn’t know anymore. Maybe he was
trashed
a little tipsy. Slowly rising – he always got like that when he drank. Barely different, just slower. Probably a defence mechanism. If he took things slowly he wouldn’t screw up, right? That got him through high school exams. It was getting him through university. But it was hardly getting him through life. He let out the sigh. Why not play to his own stereotype; it was his, after all. The thought amused him for some reason. He rose. Slowly. And standing, he turned, eyes focusing on the dance floor. He’d
always wanted to dance…
never been a good dancer. But he had blood in his veins and alcohol in his blood, so he walked with confidence to the floor. Faces went by. Blank faces, concentrated faces, distant faces, warm faces. He noticed a guy getting rejected nearby; it was a familiar face crumple, quickly disguised with a familiar macho glare, and a familiar trudge away. The girl’s body language had been familiar, and a familiar turn and walk.
A familiar body
He peered across the dim room. Spinning lights were hardly impressive illumination. The patrons weren’t there to be illuminated, though. They were
bugs. Crawling specimens of the flaws of humanity, trapped in a tiny room, praying louder than they speak that no-one else notices how pathetic they are
dancing and drinking.
They really should've been talking more.
Words were for those that wanted but couldn’t have. And yet here they were, dancing and drinking, and telling themselves lies that person next to them would never believe. His eyes crinkled as he squinted at the girl. They widened in surprise,
things came as a shock, but when was he last surprised?
and he strode to her, where she had begun dancing again. His hand had only held glasses all night, bringing his poison to him. He grabbed her arm, turning her to face him, her name leaving his lips as she did so.
He knew it was her.
But yet said questioningly. He grabbed her arm gently but firmly, her skin wet with sweat. She spun around
like his touch was fire
an enraged expression in place for this violation, this trespass. And in the familiar face, framed by unfamiliar hair, he saw the familiar face crumple, and the familiar macho glare didn’t follow. The girl’s face was damp with
tears?
sweat and gently her mouth dropped open. His name spoken,
she knew it was him
despite how much he’d changed; but yet said questioningly. Her eyes shut, blocking out the fire, and she went limp.
Surprised
He caught her.
The tired cliché
with his drink. The bartender ignored him. Gone were the days of
“Hey, buddy, what’s got you down? Lady troubles?”
the congenial barkeep. Not in a joint like this, anyway. A smile to entice tips was about as good as it got. A clean glass the extent of gratitude for the tip. Good service,
what didn’t get complaints to the management; it was just that
the bare minimum. With no hint of the stereotypical sigh he wanted to let out, his shoulder muscles as seen from the back tensed, his arm rising, wrist not shaking at all which clutched the glass he drained. Soft exhalation. He wasn’t drunk,
his ex girlfriend always accused him of being drunk
he wasn’t drunk,
she wouldn’t care, alcohol was alcohol
and he was sick of coming off as defensive. But
he’d been drinking, he had drunk, why wasn’t he?
The logic of that woman defied argument. Or at least she defied argument. He didn’t know anymore. Maybe he was
trashed
a little tipsy. Slowly rising – he always got like that when he drank. Barely different, just slower. Probably a defence mechanism. If he took things slowly he wouldn’t screw up, right? That got him through high school exams. It was getting him through university. But it was hardly getting him through life. He let out the sigh. Why not play to his own stereotype; it was his, after all. The thought amused him for some reason. He rose. Slowly. And standing, he turned, eyes focusing on the dance floor. He’d
always wanted to dance…
never been a good dancer. But he had blood in his veins and alcohol in his blood, so he walked with confidence to the floor. Faces went by. Blank faces, concentrated faces, distant faces, warm faces. He noticed a guy getting rejected nearby; it was a familiar face crumple, quickly disguised with a familiar macho glare, and a familiar trudge away. The girl’s body language had been familiar, and a familiar turn and walk.
A familiar body
He peered across the dim room. Spinning lights were hardly impressive illumination. The patrons weren’t there to be illuminated, though. They were
bugs. Crawling specimens of the flaws of humanity, trapped in a tiny room, praying louder than they speak that no-one else notices how pathetic they are
dancing and drinking.
They really should've been talking more.
Words were for those that wanted but couldn’t have. And yet here they were, dancing and drinking, and telling themselves lies that person next to them would never believe. His eyes crinkled as he squinted at the girl. They widened in surprise,
things came as a shock, but when was he last surprised?
and he strode to her, where she had begun dancing again. His hand had only held glasses all night, bringing his poison to him. He grabbed her arm, turning her to face him, her name leaving his lips as she did so.
He knew it was her.
But yet said questioningly. He grabbed her arm gently but firmly, her skin wet with sweat. She spun around
like his touch was fire
an enraged expression in place for this violation, this trespass. And in the familiar face, framed by unfamiliar hair, he saw the familiar face crumple, and the familiar macho glare didn’t follow. The girl’s face was damp with
tears?
sweat and gently her mouth dropped open. His name spoken,
she knew it was him
despite how much he’d changed; but yet said questioningly. Her eyes shut, blocking out the fire, and she went limp.
Surprised
He caught her.