... (being part the second)

I was waiting for the end of the world. I was waiting for the sun to rise in the west. I was waiting for my contradictions to resolve themselves so that I might get down to the business of living and living rightly. No such luck. If my first impression of Sam was one of condescension and professional disdain, my second was no better. Having been duped into a night on the town with the lads, I left the comfort of my apartment and my bottle for crowded bars and overpriced watered down drinks. While a heavy glass of amber poison would have contented me for the evening, I was instead blessed with the joy of inane chatter with lesser mortals and the sly come hither insinuations of scantily clad harpies wishing only for me to buy them drinks and jewelry with the money that my fashion and flair implied but did not conceal. And there she was, in all her glory, the queen of the castle, sitting court above us all deigning only to speak with the most promising of gentlemen and even then casually dismissing all advances with ease and grace. The room loved her. It is safe to say that I despised her immediately.

Damn all beautiful women. I drank heavily that night. Some in the bars but mostly when I got home. When I surfaced later in the week I was more miserable than ever; haggard, unkempt, and exhausted. I may have slept a few nights in the park. That might have been a dream though. I can never tell. My writing was still blocked. Fuck it. I cleaned myself up and went to see Chuck. If he couldn’t make things better at least he would have a better/new way to forget. I may be drowning but I ain’t dead yet.

It was a different bar the next time. We were finally formally introduced and spoke at length. Or so the story goes. While I was clearly there physically that evening, I have no recollection whatsoever of the events and unfortunately have to trust what little information I have been able to piece together from my detail deficient friends as to the true nature of the events. She was wearing blue. The only image from the experience that remains within the grasp of my conscious mind is that she was wearing blue. Blue to match her piecing eyes, her dark tresses falling loosely over pale bare shoulders and a smile promised warmth for a man so long alone in the cold and desperate winter winds of solitude, of exile.

She came up like she knew me the next night. My street cred skyrocketed with everyone who saw us together. No longer the surly degenerate leering over his drinks at the frolicking of unencumbered souls; anyone who was in with Sam was in. Fucking high school all over again. I went with it. What else could I do? She’s beautiful and I have no self-respect. We talked about her mostly: it seemed safer. She proved herself to be of far more depth than I had thought possible. It won’t stop me from judging books by their covers, maybe a glance or two at the backside, but it certainly improved the evening having someone intelligent and witty to banter with. I almost got the impression she found my posturing attractive (cute at the very least). I did not expect her to call at 4 am though.