Thursday, April 2, 2009

Residue.

She slaps her knuckles to the knees, her moves as efferent as her views. Then as if taking cue from my inability to strike conversation, she pioneers a discussion on the upcoming elections. The single malts arrive as neat as her luring hair and I find myself hazily looking into the semi brown state of affairs, bleakly blocked by hexagonally shaped ice cubes and an overdose of Dylan's stunning melody. On a better night, I'd wait for the blocks to semi melt and then drown the ethanol but tonight, I'm already running away. Half willingly through an embarrassed gaze, I let her run riot. The inequality in our comportment may seem disheartening to the waitress, as well as to the other regulars but her voice shall not run dry. Not tonight. She is over caffeinated, overly assured of her typical self. She's best dressed in the measured grey dress with black strands to support the thighs. The straps on her shoulder's casing are well supported by the tightness with which she holds her chest, which in turn, turn my attention onto her perfectly poised right hand holding the evident drink. I'd beg to differ and plead another, but she beats me here as well. As refills hurry up, the waitress further impatient at our neglect of the food menu, she plunges into another tirade of breaking news. She crawls the same sentences into how she feels at home at this place and I can only view such ho hum with disdain. A monotonous midnight, we have been humbled by a few pegs, and as deflated my ego is by her condescending, tiring dialogue towards the end, I do hold sway when it comes to a question mark. Every ridicule meets subdued disquiet and each of her fingers swivel, her hand gaining in confidence with every stench of alcohol that subtly berates her otherwise morose culture. She becomes surer as it goes and I, less confident of any sort of comfortable sleep. Its one of those nights when the mind keeps going back to how happy I'd be, if left alone with my own self, a pack, and the pole star. As time ticks, impatience grows and my frown is found breaking weary. Her elbow snares, dilapidated but blithe. In waspish, I lift an annoyed hand. She scowls, complete choler at locating her propaganda dismissed by my irascibility. These are the times when I wish we had never met, let alone come here in first place. Seconds stretch, and every blink of mine is a belated birthday wish. Riled, the rye my only consolation, I'm not just piqued in demeanor but in blur. Disinterest pales in comparison and she now begins to judge. It might be the high percentage in her blood stream, but for me, it has existed since before the first dram. Even the delight when vintage rubs against my neck cannot negate a swelling discontent. As the wrinkles twist, she seems to have had enough as well. Warbling herself, she ignores the last drink which she would have otherwise beetled and whizzed. For she has found her talk ignored as much as our resentment towards the food menu. Steadily the meaningful tone grimaces and a reprimanding one overtakes. Lowering her volume, she nods up and leans closer across the matted wooden table, all the while ensuring her breath does not seem a burden. She catches up on my heaviness and running her fingers across my restive hands, asks me why I feel tunneled and this apathetic. I'm almost apologetic for I have no answer. This conversation was the sole reason why I'd reveled then, celebrating her in first place.