chatter, laughter, every man dressed in another man’s clothes, everyone’s a poet. teakwood cologne reeks of a child who’s known no love and sits at mahogany tables to read oscar wilde and W.B. Yeats, travels with a legal pad scribed with his life’s work; a worthless manuscript. but in his eyes an illusion of lust, a woman, or so he believes, stands across the room. grenache in hand, tight black leggings and a pleated black skirt. a perfect white linen, unbuttoned enough to show the top of her heart. allure beats from within. locked eyes scream for interaction.
snow blanketed streets. hums of empty words oscillate in the walls of the spruce painted-pine house of 27 alderwood drive. young adult trepidation feeds the air that reeks of expensive alcohol and other substances. winter brings us together to survive. we empathize with misery, while shutting the door to reality. wishing someone to get better only makes them wish that they could be. disappointment waits for everyone at the end of the road. this one happens to be covered in ice and foggy, leaving room to anticipate something unexpected.
wandering towards the dining room somewhat drunk stupor, he’s making a fool of himself. having any kind of faith in a chance to squeeze dreams from his heart is silly. and yet somehow, it did. she stands five-nine, and wears dark cherry red lipstick. une femme aux lèvres rouges. almost maroon, like a planet in the galaxy’s farthest reaches. dark red like blood, dribbling down her chin. but you aren’t there yet. she’s carried by an elysian frame. her eyes have spots of green and are deeply sunken in but not quite hollowed out.
“how about a drink?”