"Give me some more, Joy."
Like a perfect machine, Joy grabs a glass, shoving it into the ice with her right hand, the left finds a bottle of Jim Beam.
"I think this is your last one, Ian."
The liquid replaces the air in the glass of rocks.
"The last. The last..." Ian strokes the rim of the cup with his ring finger. "The last is a beautiful thing, Joy. Shall I savior it like my first kiss, or devour it like my last breath?"
She chuckles, not at him necessarily, but at the primitive poet he becomes after 80 dollars of bourbon. She scans the rest of the bar for remnants, blinking in astonishment that no one else is left. Even "Taco Tuesday" fails to draw a crowd at 1:30 in the morning. Her eyes, seeing too much for one lifetime, glaze over, analyzing tables, chairs, for cleanliness. The entire place is immaculate, someone already cleaned, or there wasn't enough people to get things dirty. Her wrinkled hands grasp her personal copy of The New York Times, finding the spot where she left off.
"I've got a serious question for you joy." Ian squints at her, holding his glass with only his thumb and middle finger, wavering on his stool. Bourbon and cold water almost spill, but it never does. He's consumed 150 dollars worth in a night, but he's never spilled a glass. "When was the last time you ever loved... really loved another human being?" It comes out more of a statement than a question.
"Why, Ian, I love all of the regulars, even you."
He throws his head back, in slow motion, in muted laughter. His head slowly descends back to the bar. "Bullshit. You hate every motherfucker in here. And I know you hate me. If it wasn't for me, you'd be at home right now, doing... whatever it is you do at home."
She laughs nervously, directing her attention back to her newspaper, in hopes his whiskey-addled brain finds the big screen showing ESPN more interesting.
"Joy?"
She slowly takes her gaze away from the paper.
"Yes?"
"What do you want out of life?"
Her answer spews out, It's contents all over the bar, they surprise even her.
"I missed out on life long ago, kid."
He repositions, erects his arched back, stares deeply into his drink. For the first time, he doesn't find the words. She searches his expression, his sticky, brown hair, his smooth, hairless face, his thick fingers, his wide, dancing brown eyes.
"I take it I've,... amused you?" She lets out as a last resort.
His young eyes level, stare, fixate on hers. He slams the rest of his drink.
"May I have another?"
Her left hand reaches for Jim, her right performing the usual routine.
"No more."
He raises his new drink, smiling. "My last breath?"
"How about your first kiss."
Ian smiles, enjoys a sip, rolling it around his mouth, until tears fall. He lets out a meager sigh. "Almost as good."
"Glad to hear it."
She looks back down to her paper. This time, she can't read a thing.
"Dreams."
She looks up, awaiting the next spout of ideas that only fascinate people when absolutely trashed.
"I've dreamt a lot lately, Joy. What's your favorite dream?"
She smiles, looking to the floor. Finding a wet rag, she starts wiping the periodic rings of condensation off the bar. "I don't dream much anymore."
"I've got a great dream. You're in it."
"Oh really?" She wipes harder, though the counter has nothing on it.
"Yes. You're dying. Everything's in decay. I'm with you, holding you, telling you everything will be all right."
Joy stops scrubbing. "Anything else happen?"
Blood rushes to his face. "You know what happens."
"No, I don't. What else?"
"We fuck."
"We,... fuck?"
"Yes. Like nothing else in the world matters."
Her imagination sprints, then, very quickly, "I don't think this is appropriate."
"I didn't think you would. So what do you think?"
"I think that is your last drink."
"How appropriate, if that were the question at hand. The actual question is, do you want to fuck me?"
She laughs, then stops abruptly. "Ian, you're drunk. I'm old enough to be your mother. Think about how you'd feel waking up next to me in the morning. You need to go home."
He swishes his drink into a cyclone. "You're right, that's partially true. But, I've been thinking about you. A lot. You're in my dreams, I would want nothing else. Just once."
Joy goes to wipe off the counter, this time without a rag. She stops, bare hand in mid-air. She looks up to see Ian's big grin. "You need to go home."
Ian nods in recognition, setting money on the bar.
"Joy?"
"...Yes Ian?"
"I hope you enjoy life."
Joy's eyes dart around the room. Liquor bottles, wet napkins in the trash, worn costers, televisions she'd never be able to afford. They all scream.
"Ian?"
"Yes, Joy?"
"The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had."
For the second time, Ian doesn't find the words. She grabs his hand.
"Let's get you home."
Like a perfect machine, Joy grabs a glass, shoving it into the ice with her right hand, the left finds a bottle of Jim Beam.
"I think this is your last one, Ian."
The liquid replaces the air in the glass of rocks.
"The last. The last..." Ian strokes the rim of the cup with his ring finger. "The last is a beautiful thing, Joy. Shall I savior it like my first kiss, or devour it like my last breath?"
She chuckles, not at him necessarily, but at the primitive poet he becomes after 80 dollars of bourbon. She scans the rest of the bar for remnants, blinking in astonishment that no one else is left. Even "Taco Tuesday" fails to draw a crowd at 1:30 in the morning. Her eyes, seeing too much for one lifetime, glaze over, analyzing tables, chairs, for cleanliness. The entire place is immaculate, someone already cleaned, or there wasn't enough people to get things dirty. Her wrinkled hands grasp her personal copy of The New York Times, finding the spot where she left off.
"I've got a serious question for you joy." Ian squints at her, holding his glass with only his thumb and middle finger, wavering on his stool. Bourbon and cold water almost spill, but it never does. He's consumed 150 dollars worth in a night, but he's never spilled a glass. "When was the last time you ever loved... really loved another human being?" It comes out more of a statement than a question.
"Why, Ian, I love all of the regulars, even you."
He throws his head back, in slow motion, in muted laughter. His head slowly descends back to the bar. "Bullshit. You hate every motherfucker in here. And I know you hate me. If it wasn't for me, you'd be at home right now, doing... whatever it is you do at home."
She laughs nervously, directing her attention back to her newspaper, in hopes his whiskey-addled brain finds the big screen showing ESPN more interesting.
"Joy?"
She slowly takes her gaze away from the paper.
"Yes?"
"What do you want out of life?"
Her answer spews out, It's contents all over the bar, they surprise even her.
"I missed out on life long ago, kid."
He repositions, erects his arched back, stares deeply into his drink. For the first time, he doesn't find the words. She searches his expression, his sticky, brown hair, his smooth, hairless face, his thick fingers, his wide, dancing brown eyes.
"I take it I've,... amused you?" She lets out as a last resort.
His young eyes level, stare, fixate on hers. He slams the rest of his drink.
"May I have another?"
Her left hand reaches for Jim, her right performing the usual routine.
"No more."
He raises his new drink, smiling. "My last breath?"
"How about your first kiss."
Ian smiles, enjoys a sip, rolling it around his mouth, until tears fall. He lets out a meager sigh. "Almost as good."
"Glad to hear it."
She looks back down to her paper. This time, she can't read a thing.
"Dreams."
She looks up, awaiting the next spout of ideas that only fascinate people when absolutely trashed.
"I've dreamt a lot lately, Joy. What's your favorite dream?"
She smiles, looking to the floor. Finding a wet rag, she starts wiping the periodic rings of condensation off the bar. "I don't dream much anymore."
"I've got a great dream. You're in it."
"Oh really?" She wipes harder, though the counter has nothing on it.
"Yes. You're dying. Everything's in decay. I'm with you, holding you, telling you everything will be all right."
Joy stops scrubbing. "Anything else happen?"
Blood rushes to his face. "You know what happens."
"No, I don't. What else?"
"We fuck."
"We,... fuck?"
"Yes. Like nothing else in the world matters."
Her imagination sprints, then, very quickly, "I don't think this is appropriate."
"I didn't think you would. So what do you think?"
"I think that is your last drink."
"How appropriate, if that were the question at hand. The actual question is, do you want to fuck me?"
She laughs, then stops abruptly. "Ian, you're drunk. I'm old enough to be your mother. Think about how you'd feel waking up next to me in the morning. You need to go home."
He swishes his drink into a cyclone. "You're right, that's partially true. But, I've been thinking about you. A lot. You're in my dreams, I would want nothing else. Just once."
Joy goes to wipe off the counter, this time without a rag. She stops, bare hand in mid-air. She looks up to see Ian's big grin. "You need to go home."
Ian nods in recognition, setting money on the bar.
"Joy?"
"...Yes Ian?"
"I hope you enjoy life."
Joy's eyes dart around the room. Liquor bottles, wet napkins in the trash, worn costers, televisions she'd never be able to afford. They all scream.
"Ian?"
"Yes, Joy?"
"The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had."
For the second time, Ian doesn't find the words. She grabs his hand.
"Let's get you home."
VIEW 9 of 9 COMMENTS
i dont like the whole - we need the bad - stuff either, but thats how it came out
all these stories in that thread ive just picked a lyric, sat down and cranked em out and not revised or reread or anything
so
i dont really like any of them
they have potential
like this swear word one
with the crime in willys factory
i think i could make something out of it
but youre right
the bad is necessary thing is so played out
i gotta go back and revise the fuck out of it
thanks for the facts (of life) man
meanwhile, i finally found a way of writing dialouge that makes me really happy and posting it on the internet fucks the formating all to hell, ruining the effect. brilliant.