100WTSG #05: Alcohol lets us be true to ourselves
"Famous last words," an eyebrow raised, highball rising to lips in a deliberate gesture, eyes transfixed on him standing there so still.
He can feel the piercing glare as he watches the other's throat bob up and down, he stares at the hand still clutching the cool glass and swilling the liquid inside. "You had guts, coming here," a half-laugh, half-reproach. He knows it's the alcohol talking but he wants so badly to reach out and into the space separating the two of them.
He opens his mouth to speak but the other beats him to it.
"Shut up, I don't have time for your excuses."
Frantic.
The highball slams on the bar, empty, and a bottle immediately clinks against it. Once the glass is full, the bottle drops to the ground - rolling away and spilling amber liquid everywhere. Before the glass raises again, a broken sob permeates the air.
He finally raises his eyes and there are tears, waterworks, on the other's face. There's a hard, sour taste at the back of his tongue at the sight and he actually steps forward, hand unconsiously trying to reach out.
He hovers, hand not-touching a shoulder but still there. They stare each other down and he sees something in the other's eyes he hasn't ever seen before. Hate. Bitterness. Things even copious amounts of alcohol cannot mask and something very basic breaks within his being.
His hand falls to his side when he walks away, and the only evidence he was there is the sound of a broken voice calling out his name.
Labels: c: 100wtsg, f: short story, l: english
Sunday, 13 April 2014 @ 10:05
Post a Comment