Reykjavik is just a personality I construct in my head to talk to, because I'm a bored, pathetic little boy with delusions of being a storyteller.
I was surprised at how little I could muster for Heather as she leaned in and spoke to me. Brad, drunk to the point of incoherence, sat in the corner stool, watching the chaos and smiling contentedly, and I devoted an illogical amount of energy toward decoding the mess he'd made of the KJ booth, leaving precious little patience for anything else.
She started to talk, and I tried to listen, but the first accentuated "LIES" immediately shifted my focus toward the gathering whine I hoped only I could hear coming from the speakers. I offered cursory responses here and there, but nothing of substance.
Nikki stood behind the bar, a stern look on her face, agitated at events that had happened during the course of the night of which I wouldn't learn until the following day. I could see her when I leaned left, toward Heather's voice, and gazed over the crowd.
Heather asked me a question; I briefly wondered if she'd noticed her sliding into the periphery of my attention. "Why would you do something like that?"
I saw no reason to lie. "Because I wrote it. Because I felt it. Because I thought it." I was beginning to get annoyed; far too soon, my brain was responding. The lack of implication of some inflexible truth precludes my words from being lies, even if my constant acknowledgement of my own fallibility didn't. Did you even read anything else I've written?
At that point, her words ceased to have any meaning, simply becoming a perversely melodic drone whose rise and fall would have been beautiful had it simply been an inarticulate noise. Retrospectively, I'm not entirely sure it wasn't that. Just the same, she carried on with the pretense that this was a dialogue and not her attempt to achieve some goal whose specifics apparently stretched farther than the reach of my inferior intellect, asking me how I would feel if someone had done something like that to me.
Once again, I saw no purpose in lying. "Ya know what? It has happened to me, and I just dealt with it." Something in my voice flipped a switch in my brain, and I immediately withdrew from the conversation, at least mentally, switching my social engine to autopilot as I tried to make heads or tails of Brad's inebriative organizational scheme.
I felt Heather talking again. Unused to having people agree when she insults them, I thought. I thought of her friend's email, and the flames she'd left in my comments. For someone they seem to find so pathetic, they seem to spend an inordinate amount of time caring about what I say.
I lost all interest whatever in keeping up the pretense of interest. "I'm not even trying to talk to you at all," I said. "Why are you bothering with me?" I didn't listen to her reply, nor did I listen to my response. She said something about inclinations before pouring her drink on the front of my pants.
Switching CD's, I appraised the floor in front of me. There seemed to be no apparent damage to the P.A. equipment; noting the need to wash my jeans that night, I called the next singer's name and thought about shifting my wallet from the doused side to the other. Eh, later.
Lindex, sitting nearby, apparently found the situation far more dire than I. "Did she just pour her drink on you?" I hadn't even seen Heather make her escape, presumably triumphantly returning to her friends at the table with a tale of conquest.
"Yeah," I said nonchalantly.
"Did she really?"
"It's just liquid, Dex," I said, "I can just wash the jeans later." Strangely, I felt far more annoyed with him than with her, still marvelling at the hilarity of actually having had a drink spilled upon me in retaliation for anything. I thought about walking over to Heather and asking her how she felt about putting me in my place, and decided the humor would most likely be lost on her and her friends. Instead, I shrugged and continued watching the singers.
Reykjavik popped up out of nowhere, grinning maniacally inside my head. "I guess she got you, man," he chuckled.
"She sure did," I replied.
"So, wait," he said, "I thought you agreed with her?"
"Yep."
"Doesn't really take self-deprecation well, does she?"
"Few things will deter a woman with a mind for revenge, Reykjavik."
His smile widened. "How's she going to feel when you write about this?"
"I'd like to think," I thought, "That she's dismissed anything I write as the bullshit she claims it to be."
"You'd like to think I'm real," he countered.
I had to laugh then, out loud.
I was surprised at how little I could muster for Heather as she leaned in and spoke to me. Brad, drunk to the point of incoherence, sat in the corner stool, watching the chaos and smiling contentedly, and I devoted an illogical amount of energy toward decoding the mess he'd made of the KJ booth, leaving precious little patience for anything else.
She started to talk, and I tried to listen, but the first accentuated "LIES" immediately shifted my focus toward the gathering whine I hoped only I could hear coming from the speakers. I offered cursory responses here and there, but nothing of substance.
Nikki stood behind the bar, a stern look on her face, agitated at events that had happened during the course of the night of which I wouldn't learn until the following day. I could see her when I leaned left, toward Heather's voice, and gazed over the crowd.
Heather asked me a question; I briefly wondered if she'd noticed her sliding into the periphery of my attention. "Why would you do something like that?"
I saw no reason to lie. "Because I wrote it. Because I felt it. Because I thought it." I was beginning to get annoyed; far too soon, my brain was responding. The lack of implication of some inflexible truth precludes my words from being lies, even if my constant acknowledgement of my own fallibility didn't. Did you even read anything else I've written?
At that point, her words ceased to have any meaning, simply becoming a perversely melodic drone whose rise and fall would have been beautiful had it simply been an inarticulate noise. Retrospectively, I'm not entirely sure it wasn't that. Just the same, she carried on with the pretense that this was a dialogue and not her attempt to achieve some goal whose specifics apparently stretched farther than the reach of my inferior intellect, asking me how I would feel if someone had done something like that to me.
Once again, I saw no purpose in lying. "Ya know what? It has happened to me, and I just dealt with it." Something in my voice flipped a switch in my brain, and I immediately withdrew from the conversation, at least mentally, switching my social engine to autopilot as I tried to make heads or tails of Brad's inebriative organizational scheme.
I felt Heather talking again. Unused to having people agree when she insults them, I thought. I thought of her friend's email, and the flames she'd left in my comments. For someone they seem to find so pathetic, they seem to spend an inordinate amount of time caring about what I say.
I lost all interest whatever in keeping up the pretense of interest. "I'm not even trying to talk to you at all," I said. "Why are you bothering with me?" I didn't listen to her reply, nor did I listen to my response. She said something about inclinations before pouring her drink on the front of my pants.
Switching CD's, I appraised the floor in front of me. There seemed to be no apparent damage to the P.A. equipment; noting the need to wash my jeans that night, I called the next singer's name and thought about shifting my wallet from the doused side to the other. Eh, later.
Lindex, sitting nearby, apparently found the situation far more dire than I. "Did she just pour her drink on you?" I hadn't even seen Heather make her escape, presumably triumphantly returning to her friends at the table with a tale of conquest.
"Yeah," I said nonchalantly.
"Did she really?"
"It's just liquid, Dex," I said, "I can just wash the jeans later." Strangely, I felt far more annoyed with him than with her, still marvelling at the hilarity of actually having had a drink spilled upon me in retaliation for anything. I thought about walking over to Heather and asking her how she felt about putting me in my place, and decided the humor would most likely be lost on her and her friends. Instead, I shrugged and continued watching the singers.
Reykjavik popped up out of nowhere, grinning maniacally inside my head. "I guess she got you, man," he chuckled.
"She sure did," I replied.
"So, wait," he said, "I thought you agreed with her?"
"Yep."
"Doesn't really take self-deprecation well, does she?"
"Few things will deter a woman with a mind for revenge, Reykjavik."
His smile widened. "How's she going to feel when you write about this?"
"I'd like to think," I thought, "That she's dismissed anything I write as the bullshit she claims it to be."
"You'd like to think I'm real," he countered.
I had to laugh then, out loud.
corvus_pdx:
Bob is one of a kind.