The jovial voices had subsided and the group dispersed. There were only a few of us at the art show, most heavily intoxicated and I myself a few ales deep but the looming threat of words due in the AM was a constant reminder to maintain some semblance of sobriety. Professionalism being my newest mantra.
Beneath an oil on canvas painting of Bukowski, sat a woman named Sara. She wore a black spotted dress with black spotted earrings and played Willie Nelson music on her laptop despite no one else wanting to hear country. Her jet black hair curled about her chin. "Can I pick the next song?" I query. "Sssuuure," she replies unassertively.
Scrolling through her list three things became apparent: Sara likes sounds tracks, her computer was new (there was only 2GB of music on the laptop) and she had few favorites, choosing instead to listen to all of here music rather equally. "Whatcha pick?" she asks. "You'll have to see," I respond.
When Willie finished singing Whiskey River a chorus of instruments crackles out nearby speakers. Beethoven's 9th Symphony. The song makes me think of Spring and Kubrick's Clockwork Orange.
Her husband is outside smoking she says. Chris, a mutual friend sits nearest her on the couch. She says she needs to go home. "Where is that?" I ask. Eastmoreland. I laugh and say I live in Westmoreland, near the Yukon Tavern. She explains she drives by my house daily that she has no friends in the neighborhood and that we should hang out. We are both self employed and lack the social interactions of our office-dwelling counterparts. Chris sways his head back and forth, his eyes staring me in the face. She gets up to piss.
"She is the wife of a good friend of mine Sean and if you fuck that up I will beat you," responds Chris, a friend twenty years my senior. "God fuck Chris, I haven't done shit," I retort. "If you fuck that up I will beat you," his eyes still sharp like a raptor with bad intentions. "I haven't said anything inappropriate Chris, damn-it."
"If you fuck that up I will beat you, have I made myself clear?" Chris repeats. "Ad nauseam," I say grabbing my helmet and walking away.
I see Sara walking back towards the sofa. "Good-bye" I say. "Maybe we'll meet in the neighborhood," she responds. With my hand resting on the door handle about to walk outside into the dreary rain I stare back at her curled hair and dress before responding. "I hope so."
Beneath an oil on canvas painting of Bukowski, sat a woman named Sara. She wore a black spotted dress with black spotted earrings and played Willie Nelson music on her laptop despite no one else wanting to hear country. Her jet black hair curled about her chin. "Can I pick the next song?" I query. "Sssuuure," she replies unassertively.
Scrolling through her list three things became apparent: Sara likes sounds tracks, her computer was new (there was only 2GB of music on the laptop) and she had few favorites, choosing instead to listen to all of here music rather equally. "Whatcha pick?" she asks. "You'll have to see," I respond.
When Willie finished singing Whiskey River a chorus of instruments crackles out nearby speakers. Beethoven's 9th Symphony. The song makes me think of Spring and Kubrick's Clockwork Orange.
Her husband is outside smoking she says. Chris, a mutual friend sits nearest her on the couch. She says she needs to go home. "Where is that?" I ask. Eastmoreland. I laugh and say I live in Westmoreland, near the Yukon Tavern. She explains she drives by my house daily that she has no friends in the neighborhood and that we should hang out. We are both self employed and lack the social interactions of our office-dwelling counterparts. Chris sways his head back and forth, his eyes staring me in the face. She gets up to piss.
"She is the wife of a good friend of mine Sean and if you fuck that up I will beat you," responds Chris, a friend twenty years my senior. "God fuck Chris, I haven't done shit," I retort. "If you fuck that up I will beat you," his eyes still sharp like a raptor with bad intentions. "I haven't said anything inappropriate Chris, damn-it."
"If you fuck that up I will beat you, have I made myself clear?" Chris repeats. "Ad nauseam," I say grabbing my helmet and walking away.
I see Sara walking back towards the sofa. "Good-bye" I say. "Maybe we'll meet in the neighborhood," she responds. With my hand resting on the door handle about to walk outside into the dreary rain I stare back at her curled hair and dress before responding. "I hope so."
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