Post by Jack of Blades on Jul 13, 2006 18:26:57 GMT -5
"And how's the medication helping? Any nausea?", He asks as he pretends to take notes on my state of health all the while finishing his sudoku puzzle.
"I want to stab you in the neck with your pen and ask that you rasp out the alphabet backwards as you clutch at that chain you refer to as a necktie.", I reply.
"What?"
"Nothing. Are the pills a diuretic?"
"Why? Are you experiencing an increased regularity?"
"Sometimes. Which is surprising because I consider myself anal retentive."
He doesn't laugh. He finds the missing number in his puzzle and gives a short stare at the bookcase adjacent to him. I'm tempted to ask him if he enjoys 'Frasier.' I don't.
"Do you consider yourself a funny man?"
"I used to. Before I met you?"
He laughs, interested that I refer to my ventures as Jack of Blades under the personal pronoun 'I.' He thinks we've made a breakthrough. I associate him as one and the same. I smile.
He finishes his range of questions with a double-whammy as if to draw it to a conclusion.
"Do you still think about her?"
"No."
"Are you angry at the people who took her out?"
"Those thieving, opportunistic bastards whose only concern is that of financial safety and ego is fueled by safety in their incredulous rank? No."
I leave his offices and the comfort of his leather sofa. Always a cliche but I respect them now. Unlike Jack, unlike I, I now enjoy the occasional examples of conformity in my daily rounds. I cusp the medication I was given. The stuff that could sedate a horse.
I arrive back at the apartment. I listen at the dented door to a few shades of movement from inside. It wasn't Jake. He was at the Golf club today trying to teach single women how to swing with their hips.
It's her. Sarah. Her blonde hair and bespectacled eyes. Her long nails and thin frame all present as she moved off the barstool that with another of its kind, was our entire furniture collection. She meets me half-way and stutters as she tries to apologise.
"The phone was ringing and sorry - but it kept on and didn't stop and I thought it could be urgent or something like an emergency and the door was unlocked so I came in. Sorry. Anyway, it was um - someone who owned some company - um - WTS? Something like that. Sorry. It was the owner, like I said. I forgot his name, meant to write it down. Anyway, it sounded like an insurance company by the name and I tried to take a message but the guy, he just got angry and called me a 'poodle' and hung up. Sorry."
She flashes me her million-dollar smile and for some reason, I hide the pills that I was holding onto. She moves past me careful not to bump into me but goes at such an angle that she ends up looking me in the face, only about two inches away. We look at each uncomfortably as if we were to kiss before she lets out a laugh and another apology. She moves past me and heads for the door.
"Would you like some coffee? I mean, I drink tea more but I could make you a coffee?"
She settles for tea. She tells me that her mother was half-English and how she always made her tea as a child to calm her down when she was having some kind of crisis that children do. I pour it into Jake's 'World's Greatest Lover' mug and hand it to her. She says it reminds her of her grandmother. She tells me how she comes from Dakota and a synopsis of her life-story up until her current age of twenty-two. She tells me that she was accepted into Syracuse to study some 'History of Art' but when her brash sister ran away with her teacher, she had to return home and tend to a parent's decaying health. She asks me to return the favour. I give her a similar account missing out such unnecessary factors as the homicidal rivalry I shared with my once best friend and the once-present psychosis.
She finishes her tea and asks if I'd like to do this again sometime. I agree. She lets out her worried laugh that always comes out in one breath. I pour her another cup. I ask her what her secretarial job entails. She continues on with tales of filing and indignant lawyers. I notice how her blonde locks all meet to form a perfect construction of hair all the while bringing her white skin back and free of wrinkles. I consider how her average height allows for such a petit frame. How her slender fingers don't carry any rings but at the same time I wonder how on her delicate wrist slides so many Indian accessories without the idea being contrary.
And her smile. She does it after every other drink of her tea. It has the same effect on her face as the largest firework does in a display. Without it, the aesthetics are pretty but with it everything seems enhanced and all are there to simply add to its brilliance. And all I can think is how good her smile would be if it were extended with the help of a scalpel.
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[glow=red,2,300]And all your crooked pictures,
looking good, mirrorism.[/glow]
"I want to stab you in the neck with your pen and ask that you rasp out the alphabet backwards as you clutch at that chain you refer to as a necktie.", I reply.
"What?"
"Nothing. Are the pills a diuretic?"
"Why? Are you experiencing an increased regularity?"
"Sometimes. Which is surprising because I consider myself anal retentive."
He doesn't laugh. He finds the missing number in his puzzle and gives a short stare at the bookcase adjacent to him. I'm tempted to ask him if he enjoys 'Frasier.' I don't.
"Do you consider yourself a funny man?"
"I used to. Before I met you?"
He laughs, interested that I refer to my ventures as Jack of Blades under the personal pronoun 'I.' He thinks we've made a breakthrough. I associate him as one and the same. I smile.
He finishes his range of questions with a double-whammy as if to draw it to a conclusion.
"Do you still think about her?"
"No."
"Are you angry at the people who took her out?"
"Those thieving, opportunistic bastards whose only concern is that of financial safety and ego is fueled by safety in their incredulous rank? No."
I leave his offices and the comfort of his leather sofa. Always a cliche but I respect them now. Unlike Jack, unlike I, I now enjoy the occasional examples of conformity in my daily rounds. I cusp the medication I was given. The stuff that could sedate a horse.
I arrive back at the apartment. I listen at the dented door to a few shades of movement from inside. It wasn't Jake. He was at the Golf club today trying to teach single women how to swing with their hips.
It's her. Sarah. Her blonde hair and bespectacled eyes. Her long nails and thin frame all present as she moved off the barstool that with another of its kind, was our entire furniture collection. She meets me half-way and stutters as she tries to apologise.
"The phone was ringing and sorry - but it kept on and didn't stop and I thought it could be urgent or something like an emergency and the door was unlocked so I came in. Sorry. Anyway, it was um - someone who owned some company - um - WTS? Something like that. Sorry. It was the owner, like I said. I forgot his name, meant to write it down. Anyway, it sounded like an insurance company by the name and I tried to take a message but the guy, he just got angry and called me a 'poodle' and hung up. Sorry."
She flashes me her million-dollar smile and for some reason, I hide the pills that I was holding onto. She moves past me careful not to bump into me but goes at such an angle that she ends up looking me in the face, only about two inches away. We look at each uncomfortably as if we were to kiss before she lets out a laugh and another apology. She moves past me and heads for the door.
"Would you like some coffee? I mean, I drink tea more but I could make you a coffee?"
She settles for tea. She tells me that her mother was half-English and how she always made her tea as a child to calm her down when she was having some kind of crisis that children do. I pour it into Jake's 'World's Greatest Lover' mug and hand it to her. She says it reminds her of her grandmother. She tells me how she comes from Dakota and a synopsis of her life-story up until her current age of twenty-two. She tells me that she was accepted into Syracuse to study some 'History of Art' but when her brash sister ran away with her teacher, she had to return home and tend to a parent's decaying health. She asks me to return the favour. I give her a similar account missing out such unnecessary factors as the homicidal rivalry I shared with my once best friend and the once-present psychosis.
She finishes her tea and asks if I'd like to do this again sometime. I agree. She lets out her worried laugh that always comes out in one breath. I pour her another cup. I ask her what her secretarial job entails. She continues on with tales of filing and indignant lawyers. I notice how her blonde locks all meet to form a perfect construction of hair all the while bringing her white skin back and free of wrinkles. I consider how her average height allows for such a petit frame. How her slender fingers don't carry any rings but at the same time I wonder how on her delicate wrist slides so many Indian accessories without the idea being contrary.
And her smile. She does it after every other drink of her tea. It has the same effect on her face as the largest firework does in a display. Without it, the aesthetics are pretty but with it everything seems enhanced and all are there to simply add to its brilliance. And all I can think is how good her smile would be if it were extended with the help of a scalpel.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
[glow=red,2,300]And all your crooked pictures,
looking good, mirrorism.[/glow]
