Thirst And Serenity
Dim light and outside it's cold and I've had way too much to drink and she's leaning on my shoulder, also intoxicated, as we drive on our ride to the next bar.
I have the window open to splash cold air on my face in an empty attempt to sober myself up.
She fades in and out and that's a warning sign and I see the electric blue sign burning in the air in front of me and I'm staring outside and I stare at the building of my new employment and I say, "Hey, that's where I work."
And she wakes up and stares at me in the dim light that is getting dimmer by the mile and she half whispers, "Congratulations, again," forcing the words out as she wakes up.
And she is smiling and leaning on me and I stare at her smile and wonder and look away again and again I'm looking outside in the dim night.
"I don't know if I'll like it. I don't know if it'll be good for me."
"Don't panic, now."
"I want to go back. I want to go to Iraq. Iraq would be good for me."
And at this point the ride is over and we're at the next bar and I take another drink and drink harder, for no apparent reason, I think. But I'm wrong.
"Iraq would be good for me," I say and I'm forgetting what I'm saying.
Light gets dimmer, even in the headlights from the street as we walk out of that bar and on, to yet another one.
"I'd miss you."
She said it a hundred times. She said it a thousand times. I wonder if she is looking at me and I wonder where we are and I think that I can never get away from the same old themes in my life.
I look at her and then away and then at her, again, and we're drinking together, the two of us, in the last bar, and the light is so dim that we can't see anything else and there we are, the two of us, somewhere, in that dimming haze.
"All that I know doesn't really make sense."
"I think we drink for the same reasons."
"I think you lead me on."
"Blame it on whatever."
"I'm thankful for whatever."
We toast to ourselves, drink, stare at each other because there is nothing else to stare at. And then it's all dark.
The lights go out.
I have the window open to splash cold air on my face in an empty attempt to sober myself up.
She fades in and out and that's a warning sign and I see the electric blue sign burning in the air in front of me and I'm staring outside and I stare at the building of my new employment and I say, "Hey, that's where I work."
And she wakes up and stares at me in the dim light that is getting dimmer by the mile and she half whispers, "Congratulations, again," forcing the words out as she wakes up.
And she is smiling and leaning on me and I stare at her smile and wonder and look away again and again I'm looking outside in the dim night.
"I don't know if I'll like it. I don't know if it'll be good for me."
"Don't panic, now."
"I want to go back. I want to go to Iraq. Iraq would be good for me."
And at this point the ride is over and we're at the next bar and I take another drink and drink harder, for no apparent reason, I think. But I'm wrong.
"Iraq would be good for me," I say and I'm forgetting what I'm saying.
Light gets dimmer, even in the headlights from the street as we walk out of that bar and on, to yet another one.
"I'd miss you."
She said it a hundred times. She said it a thousand times. I wonder if she is looking at me and I wonder where we are and I think that I can never get away from the same old themes in my life.
I look at her and then away and then at her, again, and we're drinking together, the two of us, in the last bar, and the light is so dim that we can't see anything else and there we are, the two of us, somewhere, in that dimming haze.
"All that I know doesn't really make sense."
"I think we drink for the same reasons."
"I think you lead me on."
"Blame it on whatever."
"I'm thankful for whatever."
We toast to ourselves, drink, stare at each other because there is nothing else to stare at. And then it's all dark.
The lights go out.
posted by Chris Miles at 12:42 AM
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